


As the Stars of Heaven: Holmesian Reproductive Strategies

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherhood, Children, Family, Gen, Not Incest, Romance, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:44:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some concerns are unavoidable for responsible middle-aged men of a certain style and dignity. Mycroft's got to decide what to do about the estate and inheritance and all those good and worthy family sorts of things, given he and Sherlock have no offspring. Family planning the Holmesian way. This is not Holmescest/incest, barring a few mild and tasteless jokes.</p><p>This one turned longish and decidedly Mystrade, though quite non-erotica. Love-story. Main characters: Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

They met at the Diogenes club. Of course. At Mycroft’s behest. Of course. Sherlock didn’t even attempt to rein in his annoyance.

Of course. He was Sherlock. Time and bitter experience had taught him slightly more restraint over the years, but some things are forever. Letting his brother know what a high-handed arse he was had to be included among those eternal verities.

“Nothing better to do on Christmas Day, brother?” he drawled, dropping easily into one of the leather club chairs in the Stranger’s Room. “Not going to listen to Her Majesty’s address to the nation? Not planning on rereading ‘A Christmas Carol’ for the thousandth time? Or listening to the Richard Burton recording of ‘A Child’s Christmas in Wales’?”

Mycroft smirked…but, then, that tight little not-smile was Mycroft’s answer to all Sherlock’s barbs—a reliable refusal to cooperate with his little brother’s goading. It was nothing more than a gracious and refined “screw you, you snotty little prat.” Rather than respond he ushered in a silent staff-member of the club, who carried a loaded tea-tray. Though the Stranger’s Room was the one place in the club free of the requirements of silence, other than the private rooms reserved by members for their own use, Mycroft and the servant both refrained from speech, communicating with little more than a flickering glance, a microscopic nod, a hand hovering over the tea service. In seconds between them they’d come to an agreement on the placement of the repast, the arrangement of the china, the presence or absence of the server. A second more and the room was empty but for Mycroft and Sherlock.

Mycroft settled himself delicately in a second chair, poised over the tea service. “Shall I play ‘mother’?” he asked, a particular wicked mischief flashing in his cool eyes.

“You do seem determined to do so,” Sherlock sighed, melodramatically. “A lifetime of unnecessary maternalism, wasted on me.”

“I quite agree,” Mycroft said, with deceptive mildness, as he poured out Sherlock’s tea. He didn’t need to ask before adding two sugars and passing the delicate china cup toward his brother. “Which is why I’ve called you here this morning.”

Sherlock, just starting to lean forward to accept the cup, froze in place momentarily, shaken by a sudden conviction he was walking into a trap. There was a wicked, lurking delight whispering under Mycroft’s every move, his every word. He was, God help them all, _up to something!_ Sherlock forced himself to relax and collect his cup, sipping delicately, studying his brother over the rim. “You have plans for change, brother-mine?”

“Quite,” Mycroft smiled—and this time it wasn’t a smirk, it was a true smile. “Though I thought I’d give you a chance to enter into discussion over my intentions.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re dealing with madmen, terrorists, or blackmailers, I’m unlikely to have any interest in plans of yours, Mycroft.”

“Even plans that might free you from what you consider my too-intrusive concern for your well being? Or at least,” he added, contemplatively, “to reduce my investment? Honesty compels me to confess that even my plans are unlikely to end my commitment to your health and happiness entirely.”

“What are you up to?” Sherlock growled, feeling the hair at the nape of his neck rise in response to his sudden intuition of lurking trouble approaching.

Mycroft took a sip of his tea. His eyes lost focus for a moment, thoughts clearly turning inward. “I am not,” he said, softly, “growing any younger. Nor are you, much though you may wish to think that, like Peter Pan, you can live in eternal childhood. Time, as they say, marches on. Though more and more I’m inclined to suspect it sprints. Or even gallops.”

“I’m not ready for Mrs. Hudson’s herbal soothers and endless complaints about my joints yet,” Sherlock snapped—though he himself had to admit that the months since his return from exile had rammed awareness of time and mortality down his throat. Two years absence had somehow managed to dramatically underline changes that had actually been underway for at least a decade. He was almost forty. His brother approached fifty. DI Lestrade had reached that landmark. John, even with the moustache shaved, was no longer remotely able to pass as a “young man.”

Sherlock disapproved mightily, but had no solution for the problem. It didn’t improve his attitude in the least.

“What’s your point, brother?”

Mycroft sipped more tea, eyes still looking into that private reality. He said, “After my death, you’ll inherit the Holmes estate, you know.”

“Tchah!” Sherlock exploded in rude disgust. “Keep it. Let it pass to Cousin Fredrick—though I must say, it’s wasted on him. I want nothing to do with it.”

“Yes. I thought you’d say that,” Mycroft said. “And I quite agree regarding Cousin Fredrick. He’s got none of the Holmes intelligence, no fondness for the land, and he’s a complete prat. So, if you don’t mind, I thought I’d find another solution to the problem of inheritance.”

“Excuse me?” Sherlock frowned. “After Fredrick I thought the line died out. Obviously you can will your own substantial personal holdings where you like, but the entailed properties have to go to Fredrick or…what? Revert to the Crown?” He tried to remember current inheritance law as it applied to the primary property, Holmescroft, in Surrey, or any of the other entailed properties. It had been years since he’d worked a case dealing with entailed property, and he’d clearly chosen to let his information on the subject lapse in the time since, having no interest in his own potential future inheritance.

“Yes, they’d revert. Assuming I could cut Frederick out of his inheritance. The law would protect both you and him from any casual attempt to disenfranchise you, however. Failing more immediate heritors, it will most likely pass to one of you.” Mycroft returned from his pensive contemplation, then, and his humor sparked bright. “Which is why you’re here, of course.”

One tended to forget Mycroft had such a vivid smile, Sherlock thought, taken aback. Not to mention that it could blossom so brightly, taking over his entire face and lighting his eyes. Still…

“I see no ‘of course’ about my presence.”

“I’m not getting any younger, Sherlock. Neither are you. If either of us is to start a family, then we’d best be getting on with it, don’t you think?”

Mycroft might as well have set a bomb off under Sherlock’s club chair. The younger brother actually had to stop and collect himself, as he nearly choked on his own breath.

“Excuse me?”

“Family, Sherlock,” Mycroft purred, amused. “Happy ones, ideally. Progeny. Offspring. One’s immortality. The pitter-patter of little feet. Someone to educate in the values of the Holmeses. Someone to hide behind the sofa when the Daleks appear on Doctor Who. If either of us is to reproduce, we really ought to be starting soon, you know.”

Sherlock’s adrenaline output was hitting toxic levels. “Ch…ch…ch….”

“Children,” Mycroft said. “Yes. Exactly.”

Sherlock’s mind scrambled for a response. “I can’t be having a child at Baker Street. Too dangerous. And isn’t something supposed to come before reproduction in any case? You appear to have left out a minor component of the normal reproductive strategy.” Mycroft flipped a sardonic eyebrow, and Sherlock drawled, “ _Lurrrrrv._ The romantic element. How does the children’s rhyme go? ‘First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Mycroft with the baby carriage’? You appear to have ignored the logical order of things, brother-mine. We’re both rather without partners, aren’t we?”

Mycroft chuckled—actually chuckled. “Women have been having babies without husbands for millennia, Sherlock. Marriage is hardly a critical element in one’s reproductive strategy. Granted, I’d have preferred for either one of us to have found some form of domestic alliance. But allowing the future of the family to ride on the ability of two such social recluses as ourselves to find partnership is hardly reasonable. Especially at this stage in our lives. Sherlock, I’m going bald. And if my eyes don’t mislead me, I think you’re beginning to go gray. Just a little, mind you. But age isn’t going wait while we dawdle. Especially as I have no sense that either of us is pursuing his romantic potential with any great commitment to the endeavor. That being the case, I propose to move ahead with the more procreational aspects of life.”

Sherlock reached blindly for the tea cup, drinking it dry without really thinking about it. “Explain.”

Mycroft shrugged, and poured out more tea for each of them before saying, calmly, “I’m going to become an unwed father, of course. Or you can. Your choice. That’s why I called you here. While I will admit that the notion of having a child of my own is…enticing…I want to be sure that I don’t cut you out of any options you’d been subconsciously cherishing. If you’d prefer a child of yours inherit, I’d be willing enough. Though if you’re hoping to raise your own, be prepared for my insistence on taking some part in the child’s upbringing. Much though I may admire you, you demonstrate some shortcomings when one considers the issue of parental skills and attributes.”

“And you don’t?” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft gestured gracefully at the tea set in front of him. “You’ve said it yourself, Sherlock. ‘Always playing mother.’ I’m far from perfect. But I do have parental inclinations, and always have.”

“And I’ve proven such a success you’re determined to try again?”

“Let’s just say I think I’ve learned from the dry run and am prepared to attempt the real thing, and leave it at that. The main question remaining is which of us is to ‘be fruitful and multiply.’ Your call, Sherlock.”

“You’re insane.”

“On the contrary, I had my bi-annual psych review just last month. Passed with flying colors, if I do say so as shouldn’t.”

“You can’t have brought your plans for the future up, then, or they’d have sectioned you.”

“Again, I must differ. I discussed the issue extensively. Unlike you, my superiors do understand a man’s desire to contribute not only to the present, but to the future. While my methods are considered novel, the underlying desire is considered a resounding indication of my overall sanity.”

“Methods?”

“I was thinking I’d find an egg donor and a surrogate mother to start with. In all honesty, I find the process quite freeing. Rather than being restricted to a list of those women I might possibly endure in a domestic relationship—a challenge given my preferences and my character—I can simplify the search for a good genetic match for the Holmes strengths and weaknesses. Brains, cast-iron constitutions, but perhaps less inclination toward depression and nervous stress.”

“No tendency toward weight-gain or pattern baldness?” Sherlock snipped.

“If possible, though those are secondary concerns.” Mycroft studied him. “Am I to take it you’re not interested, Sherlock?”

“I’d rather spend the rest of my life attending meetings of the Women’s Institute of Buggery-on-Thames. An eternity of jam and Jerusalem would be better than paternity.”

Mycroft nodded. “While I find I regret it in some ways… though… if you wanted, I would be willing to accept a child of your begetting and raise it myself, sparing you the exquisite boredom.”

That was…unexpectedly worthy of consideration. After a few moments, though, Sherlock shook his head. “Too likely to embroil us in domestic contention. Better to keep things simple between us. Insofar as ‘simple’ even comes close to describing our relationship.”

“If you’re implying incestuous complications, Sherlock, I think I’m offended,” Mycroft snapped. “Seriously! For shame!”

“You _are_ the one who’s offering to be mother to my children,” Sherlock pointed out, amused. “I hardly think…”

“You don’t think at all,” Mycroft grumbled. “Shocking. Entirely outside my intention, and you know it. Now do stop your teasing and keep your mind on the issues at hand. If you don’t wish to provide genetic substance, do you wish to be involved as mere family?”

“What?”

“Are you prepared to serve as an uncle, Sherlock? Really, is this so very hard to understand?”

“Uncle?”

“Yes. Uncle. Show up for birthdays. Suffer the occasional holiday festivity. Tell vile stories about our shared childhood to illustrate the dangers of consanguinity in our family. Show the little darlings our treehouse. Educate them in the ways of pirates. Are you prepared to be an uncle to my children, Sherlock?”

“Children? The count just increased without warning. How many children are you planning on, Mycroft?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Now that I know I don’t have to factor you in as a potential genetic source, I thought I might quite like two or three. A family. A real family.”

Sherlock stopped, almost unable to move as his mind calmly noted the faint trace of wistfulness in his brother’s voice. “You…really want this, don’t you?”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

His brother really wanted this. Longed for it. Longed for it enough to override his own conservative leanings, his own sexual limits—both of orientation and of reproductive equipment—and to plan even in the face of the challenges his career would generate.

“They’ll be hostages to fortune for you,” Sherlock said. “You do know that. Targets for every enemy you ever provoked.”

Mycroft’s jaw set. “I’m aware of that, brother. But I’ve had decades planning for your own security to prepare me for this. The issue is already being dealt with.”

“Boys?”

“Perhaps. But I’ve had better luck unpicking the gender restrictions on inheritance than the entailment itself. I’ve…quite liked serving as patron to my female protégés. Mentoring young women has been rewarding, and unexpectedly sweet. I’m…considering daughters.”

And the vision that came with that was startlingly vivid. Sherlock could almost count the freckles on the daughters that would cluster around his brother. He could almost see the protective curl of Mycroft’s hand on a slim shoulder.

“You’re a twittering nuisance,” he growled, caught between sentimental saturation and realistic awareness of what it had been like to grow up under Mycroft’s watchful—and demanding—eye. “Daughters aren’t apprentices, Mycroft. If you treat them as you’ve treated me, what you’re actually planning is to spend the rest of your life in disappointment and domestic conflict.” He grabbed a biscuit off a serving plate. “It wasn’t easy to be your baby brother. Speaking from direct experience, you’re a demanding bastard.”

Mycroft stared into his teacup. “Yes. I am…aware of that.”

“And?”

“There’s a reason I hope you’ll stand as uncle to any children I might have. At the very least you can serve as a source of information for my daughters. They’d know that their complaints weren’t unreasonable or unfounded. At best you might… you might even serve to remind me of my less admirable tendencies. Before I inflict them on my innocent offspring.”

Damn. How entirely disarming of Mycroft. He was…what? Humble. God. Mycroft Holmes, humbled. By what? A mere desire to procreate? How the mighty were fallen!

What a good thing Sherlock was turning down the offer to do likewise! One fall in his life had been quite enough, thank you! Still…

“Well. You do at least seem to be planning sensibly,” Sherlock said, warily. “This isn’t going to happen instantly, is it?”

“Not instantly. I have yet to pick a maternal donor or a surrogate. And I want to prepare more fully for providing an extended family for my children. One not entirely drawn from my subordinates in the secret service, if you see what I mean. As an uncle, would you be comfortable allowing your own circle to associate with my daughters? You’ve been fortunate in your connections. I can’t but feel that Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Watson, and Miss Hooper would be admirable role models. And for all your own shortcomings, John Watson and DI Lestrade would be well-suited to providing girls with high standards when judging men. They could not go wrong with John and Lestrade as their idea of goodness." 

“You’re asking if I’d introduce your daughters to my friends? Because they’d be good social influences?”

“Yes. After all, they put up with you. That’s a point in their favor already, now, isn’t it?”

“Or a sign of their underlying insanity,” Sherlock snorted.

“You said it, not me,” Mycroft said, laughter flashing again.

Sherlock hadn’t seen so many smiles from Mycroft in… how long? Decades. Not, he thought with a trace of guilt, since Sherlock had first stumbled into addiction.

This—this idiotic plan. It was making Mycroft—what?

Happy.

God. It was making Mycroft happy. Sherlock drew a deep, deep breath. “I would be honored to stand as uncle to your children and introduce them to my friends, Mycroft. You had but to ask.” And, oh, God. He’ d said the right thing—judging by the radiance it might be the most right thing he’d said to his brother ever, in all their shared years. “Do…do you want input on the mother?”

Mycroft looked up, slightly uneasy. “I… might.”

“John would provide good medical advice. For that matter, so would Mary and Molly. And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would at least be interested. I could… if you were comfortable… If they’re going to be part of the girls’ extended family, they might as well be in from the inception. And the conception.”

“As it were,” Mycroft said, dry amusement sparkling like gin fizz in his eyes and his attitude. “I might welcome that. Final decision is mine, though.”

“Of course.”

“This went rather better than I feared.” Mycroft studied Sherlock carefully, and added with true fascination. “Indeed, I think on the whole you’re pleased.”

“Gets rid of the entire inheritance issue, doesn’t it?” Sherlock said, gruffly. “No more legal concerns hanging over my head. And it has the notable advantage of being both unique and interesting. Who knew you’d come up with such a novel solution to our circumstances?”

“Yes. Of course. Heaven forfend you be pleased at being offered a way to normalize our family relations somewhat.”

“You’re a total twat sometimes, Mycroft.”

“And you’re a complete vulgarian when it suits you, Sherlock.”

“You know you love me for it, brother-dearest.”

“Not in the least, brother-mine.”

Sherlock rose. Mycroft followed suit. They studied each other warily, if fondly. Something new was being born between them, and neither knew what would come of it. Still…

“I’m happy for you,” Sherlock said. “I think this will suit you.”

“I think you’re right. I’m glad you’ll be part of it.”

Both nodded, then. They’d said what they had to say.

“I’ll let my friends know,” Sherlock said. “We can work out a time to get together as a group for further planning.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Not at the Diogenes. Molly and Mary and Mrs. Hudson would be unlikely to feel comfortable here. Too many old male dinosaurs. Best we limit the tyranosaur count to you and you alone.”

“Please promise it won’t be a pub crawl, brother?”

“I think we can spare you that. Perhaps dinner at John and Mary’s.”

“Better. Or a private room at the Beloden? I hear they’ve got a good chef.”

“Also a possibility. But choosing a mother and a surrogate for your daughters won’t be managed in a single day. Perhaps both.”

“Splendid. Let me know a date and I’ll make reservations,” Mycroft said. He held out a hand. “Thank you, Sherlock.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said, returning the handshake. “All quite sensible, actually. Now, I must be off.” He nodded, and slipped from the room, already reaching for his mobile to start texting the news.

He was entirely unprepared for the emotional storm that followed.

 

 


	2. Seed on Dry Soil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's reaction to Mycroft's project.

Lestrade read the text from Sherlock a second time.

_Mycroft planning on becoming scandalous unwed father. Looking for input on maternal units as egg donors and surrogates. Free meal at Beloden. Interested? SH_

The hell?

Unwed father?

Mycroft? _Mycroft?!_

The hell….

_You’re having me on, yeah? Taking the piss?_

_Not at all. Mycroft’s planning on getting in the family way, more or less. SH_

_Right._

_Yeah. I know. Surprised me, too. So—interested in dinner at the Beloden and a chance to tell Mycroft about mitochondrial DNA? SH_

_No._

_?_

_Just…no. All right? No. Tell your brother to count me out._

_Lestrade? Are you all right? SH_

_Just sod off, Sherlock. All right? Sod off._

He turned the mobile all the way off and rammed it into his coat pocket.

The hell. Mycroft bloody Holmes was going to have a kid. The British Government, gay as a May Day dance complete with ribbons and maypole, so busy he might as well list his residence as a reserved jet plane, was going to invest a fraction of his filthy lucre, buy an egg, hire a womb, no doubt employ a few nannies and governesses, and waltz away with the prize.

Life, Lestrade thought with unexpected resentment, just was not fair. For years he’d hung on to an uneasy marriage with an unhappy wife, both of them holding out for the brass-ring win of a baby. He’d been down the entire road. It wasn’t just the months he and she had spent before even marrying, trying to work out the pros and cons marriage offered each of them: a wife who’d given up on her One True Love, a husband who was decidedly bi, to her dismay.

The one thing on the very top of the plus ledger for both of them had been kids. They both wanted lots of kids. Five. Six, even. Lots of kids…

Not that they’d gotten any. Not the first year. Not the second. Then they got serious about it. There’d been the months “trying.” And then the tests establishing they’d both managed to bring a few serious negatives to the fertility sweepstakes. Then the treatments, and the massive efforts. The temperature taking, the period-diary, the scheduled fornication. Then, when that failed, the IVF attempts. And the two miscarriages that followed. Then the beginning of the discussion of adoption. He’d been ready for it.

She hadn’t. She told him it was different for him: that he didn’t have to feel his body had failed their children, rejected them in the womb. He wasn’t so sure. Sometimes he wondered what toxin was in his very sperm that his children died stillborn and unbreathing. She told him it was different for him: that men didn’t want children in the same way women did. It didn’t define them. But he’d wanted from his teens on to fill the role of father, seeing the worth in the eyes of good men, the reward in the tenderness of loving sons and daughters. For Greg Lestrade it would always be a question: what was a man if he was never a father? (And he dared never ask himself why he so valued his relationship with Sherlock Holmes, for fear the answer come back too clearly…)

He’d told himself that what he and his wife had lost with the chance of offspring they’d made up for in closeness built over shared loss. And then he’d slowly been educated in how little was shared when one spouse’s loss turned into despair.

Someday, he thought, he might stop blaming her for looking elsewhere. It might be some time, though.

And now Mycroft bloody Holmes, Mycroft the spymaster, Mycroft who too often treated Lestrade as his proxy and errand boy, Mycroft who couldn’t maintain a decent relationship with his own brother….

Mycroft was buying a baby. No doubt he didn’t have to even look at his bank balance to work out the costs. Nor worry about adapting his work schedule: he could hire all the help he needed and no doubt tote the child from one continent to another with him without concern for loss of focus on his career: some things are just easier when money pays for support services.

Lestrade didn’t want to know. He really didn’t. Knowing was too likely to lead him down a path of bitter resentment, and Lestrade was not a man who favored that kind of surly bitterness. Better to just avoid the entire thing until he got past it one way or another. If he just kept his distance and refused to play a part, it would all pass in time.

Or, he thought, listening to Molly Hooper chatter on a week later, maybe not?

“I think he should pick another red-head,” Molly said, cheerfully. “Reinforce the recessive gene, yeah? With just one parent the kids are going to want to look like their dad, aren’t they?”

“Kids?”

“Yeah—he’s planning on more than one,” she chirped, obviously delighted. “Mary and John and I have suggested he pick one egg donor for all of them, so they all look related. Easier for them to feel like family that way, right? Pick the right woman, and stick with it. But we’re also hoping he’ll pick a different nucleus mom and a different mitochondrial mom. Best of both worlds that way.”

“Isn’t that illegal? Human genetic manipulation?”

She snorted. “Only if you’re a wussy. It’s easy-peasy, and nothing at all like recombinant stuff. And he’s Mycroft. No reason he can’t have it all, after all.”

“I guess not, if you’re the British Government,” Greg said, then went silent hearing the anger in his voice. Life was different if you were the BG, not a DI with the Met whose wife was an administrative assistant.

“Here are some mock-ups,” Molly said, leaning over her office desktop and pulling up images. “Mary and John put them together working from what we know about Mycroft and Sherlock’s genetic workups, and about some of the possible mothers. This is the one I like.” She flicked to a page showing three young women of ages ranging from late childhood to early teens. They were tall, slim, freckled, with bright ginger hair in soft curls that reminded Greg of Sherlock at his most Byronic.

“No sons?” he found himself asking, against his will. He’d have chosen some of both, he thought: the picture needed a couple gawky proto-Weasley boys to go with the girls. Long and graceful as Mycroft and Sherlock, with legs that would go on for miles.

“Mycroft says he’s done better mentoring women,” Molly said, then added in hushed, confidential tones, “but I think he’s really just afraid that he and a son would have as many problems as he and Sherlock have.”

Lestrade thought about his sometime-boss. The man was driven, in so many ways, for so many reasons. He could see the potential there for Mycroft to over-invest in a son’s successes and failures. Even if he’d had a spouse it might not have been enough to stem that hunger for a boy to fulfill every dream Mycroft had ever had, both those he’d succeeded at, and those he thought he’d failed.

It was hard to admit that the man was making a good choice…not when Lestrade wanted to reject his choice out of hand. But…

“He may have a point,” he said. “How do you think he’ll do with girls?”

Molly giggled. “He’s a sweetie. I think it’s all easier for him with us, at least so long as we’re not stalkers crushing on him. I’ve talked with his PA, and she thinks he’s the bee’s knees.”

“Bee’s knees?” Lestrade snorted.

Molly twinkled at him. “Yeah, ok. Doofy vocabulary. Sue me. She still thinks he’s super.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah. And…hell. It probably won’t matter much anyway. It’s going to be nannies and governesses from birth to boarding school in any case.”

“I don’t think so,” Molly said, firmly. “If Sherlock’s right, his brother’s planning on real family. I mean, yeah, they’re toff-ish. I guess there will be some ‘help.’ But I get the feeling Sherlock’s freaked because Big Brother’s really hungry for kids and family and the whole thing. You know Sherlock. ‘Sentiment.’ He’s trying to cover it up with snotty comments, but he’s a bit wired.”

The idea that Mycroft Holmes might hunger for children with the same deep longing Greg felt was…unsettling. He wasn’t sure if it made him feel better or worse. More accepting? Maybe. More jealous? Yeah.

Oh, yeah…

He looked at the little fantasy family peering out of Molly’s screen, every freckle picked out in cinnamon pixels. Blue eyes… blue-eyed red-heads.

If he’d been having that family they’d have hair ranging between his cousin’s ginger-chestnut and the dark taffy-brown of his youth, and their eyes would be brown and glossy-bright as fresh conkers. They’d only freckle in summer, the speckles dusting across the tops of wide, solid cheekbones and over the bridge of short, neat noses like a powdering of gold. Otherwise they’d go nut-brown at the first kiss of the sun. Their hair would go all sun-bleached and streaky. Their hands would be neat and square and clever, quick on guitar strings or keyboards.

And, dammit, thinking of it made his throat hurt and his eyes burn. He turned away.

“Greg?”

“Got to go,” he said, and was out of the lab before she could say more.

On the drive to the Met he wondered, not for the first time, if it was anything to do with being bi. He didn’t think so. He’d known too many men straight as a plumb-line who’d loved their fatherhood. It wasn’t something men talked about much, but surrounded by the rafts of testosterone in the Met he’d had a good chance to see what a massive body of men’s men cared about, and a lot of them cared about their kids—cared to have kids, cared to be involved with their kids, wanted to be fathers. It wasn’t a matter of not being “man enough,” not that he’d ever wasted too much worry over that. It was, if anything, a matter of being too much man, in his own estimation. Or being an old fashioned man—the kind of man who thought he’d only reached the apex if he had offspring, preferably scads of offspring. Kids to hold, to tickle, to walk back and forth on colicky nights, to teach to tie shoes, to take for walks, to show the knack of moving a ball down a footie field, to do homework with, to see married. Kids to read to at night. Kids to give “the talk,” and embarrass with demonstrations of condom technique using bananas, complete with final gifts of boxes of condoms for both the girls and the boys, because damned if he wanted any daughter of his growing up ignorant or getting knocked up at sixteen. He wanted kids to give him grandkids, though, eventually, in their own time. Kids to pack around the table at Christmas time. Kids to introduce to Doctor Who. Kids…

He shoved it all aside. He was fifty. He was single. Divorced. Far from wealthy. His window of opportunity had passed, even if Mycroft Holmes’ had not. It was time to be a big-hearted man and wish his sometime-boss the best, assuming he really did want this kid—these kids—as much as Molly Hooper thought.

The next time he saw Mycroft Holmes, he had to accept that the man almost certainly did want a child with a hunger he could only recognize. There was a…what? Not a softness, exactly. Mycroft Holmes was not a soft man. But something was thawing in those eyes, and for some reason he seemed to have more color, more life. More happiness, like Lestrade’s wife had during those few short weeks of pregnancy, before the miscarriages.

They were reviewing Lestrade’s notes on Sherlock’s most recent work with the Met, and the implications for long-term involvement.

“He’s doing better since he came back,” Lestrade said. “I’ll be honest: he can still be a little prick. But he’s learned at least a few social skills over the years, and I think he’s too grateful to be back to risk it as much as he would have four or five years ago.”

Mycroft nodded. “A genius who can’t learn at least some social skills is no genius,” he said. “Even the parts one learns by rote are still learnable, after all.”

Lestrade glanced at him. “How many of your social skills are rote, Mr.’Smarter than Sherlock’?”

Mycroft shrugged. “More than I like to admit; fewer than Sherlock needs to develop. Enough that…” He cut himself short, then risked a look at Lestrade. He didn’t speak further.

“What?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Just a matter I’m taking into consideration.”

“For the kid you’re planning?”

“For my… family.” There was something in his voice that turned “family” into pure love-talk.

Yeah. The sonofabitch really did want kids. Lestrade fought back a sigh. “Trying to find a potential mother with good social instincts, just in case it’s a genetic factor?”

Holmes nodded, refusing to look up from the report Lestrade had handed in.

Lestrade found himself shifting to the voice he used with Sherlock, sometimes. His father-voice, dammit. “I’m sure it’s going to be all right, Holmes. You’re really working on it, and that’s usually more important than having the best genes. They’ll learn from you.”

Mycroft shrugged, for all the world like a little boy afraid to admit some inner pain. “So much can go wrong.”

“Look,” Lestrade said. “You’re going to do all you can. Pick the best mom. Find a good surrogate. Make sure the kid has the best care before its even born and after. Even kick out any sperm that are sub-par, if I know you. And in the end you’re still going to get a little pink lump that’s wet at one end and loud at the other and messy no matter which way you turn it. And it’s going to get some things right, and some things wrong, and the same goes for you, and you’re just going to have to get past that, or risk screwing yourself and the kid up seven ways to Sunday. Get ready to give up perfect and settle for real…because that’s what you’re getting, no matter what. Eh?”

Mycroft looked at him, eyes wide and jaw dropping open, and Lestrade blushed. “Not like I know anything,” he added. “No kids of my own. But it stands to reason, you know? If you could get it all right, it would be a different world, wouldn’t it? To begin with, we’d both be out of work, you know?” He flushed, and started gathering his papers together, determined to get out before he embarrassed himself further. “Got to get back to the Met,” he said. “Got a week’s worth of paperwork backed up.” Which was a lie, but he was willing to lie for a good cause.

He rose, and made himself meet Mycroft’s eyes. “Look, I haven’t said so, but I want you to know, I wish you the best on this. I know it matters to you. So—just, good luck, mate, eh? Hope it all goes well.” He was relieved to find that even envy and jealousy weren’t enough to make those wishes false. He did want this to go well for Holmes. The man was too obviously invested in it for him to wish him the sort of discouragement and despair Lestrade and his wife had experienced. Misery might love company, but Lestrade couldn’t find it in himself to wish Mycroft to be among the miserable. He gave a nod, then, and eased out of the office, relieved to escape before he’d given away more than he had.

What he failed to take into account was that Mycroft was a Holmes, and what Lestrade had revealed was far more than he’d ever dreamed.


	3. Up in the Spinney

Five weeks—five weeks since Sherlock had heard anything at all from his brother.

Five weeks.

No texts. No emails. No moments when the CCTV cameras panned too obviously along Sherlock’s path. No sudden commands to meet at the Diogenes. Not even second-hand communications through any of Mycroft’s subordinates. No Anthea-texts. No car pulling up silently, expecting him to cooperatively enter. None of the normal. None…

That in and of itself was unexpected. Yes, Mycroft was a busy man, and it was sometimes months between face-to-face meetings. But Mycroft was nothing if not diligent in his commitment to Sherlock’s well-being. Sherlock was accustomed to a constant flicker of contact and the steady certainty that he was being observed. Whether it was an intrusion or a comfort (and Sherlock had to grudgingly concede that it was a comfort, sometimes….) Big Brother was watching.

With Mycroft’s new project, though, the odds of “radio silence” went from slim to none. Sherlock’s brother was disarmingly committed to his plans for children, and while on the one hand Sherlock was rather relieved to escape the unnerving sight of his brother in domestic overdrive, on the other hand Sherlock could think of nothing—absolutely nothing—that would cause Mycroft to shut down entirely for five weeks. There had been no notes asking about obscure genetic conditions for which Mycroft ought, perhaps, filter potential egg donors. There had been no requests for further meetings in private rooms at the Beloden for group discussion of strategy and tactics. There had been no shy, hesitant discussion of uncle activities. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and it was driving Sherlock mad. Because at some point he was going to have to do the unheard of and be the one to initiate contact.

Which was one thing when there was concrete, practical reason for it. He’d felt no great discomfort contacting big brother over Baskerville, for instance. But Sherlock simply did not initiate contact with Mycroft because he was worried about him. That was Mycroft’s role. Mycroft pursued, twittering and fussing and wringing his hands, and Sherlock stalked away in lordly indifference, scoffing at the sentiment and silly concern expressed. That was how it worked. Those were the rules.

Six weeks.

Seven weeks.

 

_Anthea, has Mycroft been out of the country lately? Like for a few weeks? SH_

_No. He’s been cutting back overseas work where he can. Why?_

_Nothing. Just wondering. SH_

Eight weeks.

Nine weeks.

Ten weeks…

 

_Anthea, has anything gone wrong with Mycroft’s private project? You do know the one I’m talking about, yes? SH_

_Nothing wrong, though he does appear to have back-burnered it a bit lately. Still collecting information, though. Why?_

_Nothing. Just wondering. SH_

 

Eleven weeks….

 

_Anthea, something’s wrong with Mycroft. What? SH_

_Sherlock, so near as I can tell he’s fine. At least…_

_What? SH_

_Just a bit quiet lately. I mean, quiet even for the boss, if you get my meaning. I’m afraid I think that’s pretty normal, though. He’s planning on some big changes, you know?_

_He’s not pestering me anymore, Anthea. At all. I haven’t heard from him or seen the cameras tracking me or gotten so much as a text in eleven weeks and four days. Nothing. SH_

_Oh. Dear. Yes, that does put things in a different light, doesn’t it? I’ll see what I can learn._

_Don’t let him know I asked. SH_

_Does that come with a ‘please,’ Sherlock?_

_I’ll even throw in sugar and a cherry on top. Just find out what’s wrong with Mycroft and get back to me. SH_

Twelve weeks.

 

_Nothing seems to be wrong, Sherlock. He’s just quiet. Really quiet. I’ll tell you the truth, now that I see it, it’s a bit spooky._

_Nothing? Nothing at all? SH_

_Nothing on the work side, unless he’s got something so secret even I wouldn’t hear about it. Which you have to admit, is pretty damned secret, since I’m the one who monitors all his official feeds._

_And most of his unofficial ones, unless I’ve missed my guess quite badly. SH_

_I’m not allowed to confirm or deny that, Sherlock._

_Exactly.SH_

_Now, now. ‘Arguments from silence never achieve the stature of arguments from evidence.’_

_Don’t lecture me on logic. You may be my brother’s protégé, but he taught me, first. SH_

_You’re just sulking because I’m right._

_No. I’m sulking because I’m going to have to break all the rules and contact Mycroft myself. SH_

_Give a girl a warning before you pop off with shocking statements like that, Sherlock! I nearly fainted!_

_Oh, don’t rub it in. Anthea, something’s wrong. Really wrong. SH_

_Yeah. I have to agree. Look, good luck finding out what. I mean it._

Twelve weeks, two days.

_Mycroft? John’s got new material on egg donorship.  SH_

_Molly’s got new evaluations of current contenders for surrogacy. SH_

_Mrs. Hudson’s been picking names—please turn down ‘Gwendolyn,’ as I refuse to stand uncle to a Gwendolyn. SH_

_All else being equal, why don’t you let me arrange a dinner at John and Mary’s to discuss? SH_

_Mycroft? SH_

_Mycroft, dinner? SH_

_Mycroft, dammit, all right. I confess. You’re scaring me. Please answer. SH_

_Busy, Sherlock. Don’t bother me. MH_

_Lair. Something’s wrong. SH_

_Busy. MH_

_I’m going to come over to see you. Don’t even try to hide. SH_

_Where were you planning on looking? MH_

_Oh, no. I’m not that stupid. You’d just make sure you weren’t there if I told you. SH_

_Then I’ll have to make sure I’m not any of the likely places. MH_

_That just lets me reduce the possibilities to the unlikely ones. Which is entertaining, but not impossible. SH_

_Good luck with that, Sherlock. MH_

_It’s not luck, it’s logic. See you soon. SH_

_Not if I see you first. MH_

_Coward. SH_

_Busy. MH_

_Coward. SH_

_Busy. MH_

_Coward. SH_

_Oh give it a rest, dammit. MH_

_Swearing, now? You really are upset. Not in your favorite corner of the British Library, I see. This is proving entertaining. SH_

_Heaven forbid I fail to provide you with cheap amusement. MH_

_Not at your backup office in Croyden. SH_

_Hardly. MH_

_Not in that little pub you like where no one knows you’re not a licensed plumber. Hmmm. You really are hiding. SH_

_Now you’re catching on. Leave me alone, Sherlock. I’m brooding. MH_

Ah, Sherlock thought, and called John on his mobile.

“I’m going to be out of town for a few days, John. You and Mary are on your own. Don’t panic when I’m not in, all right?”

“Something up?”

“Family matters.”

“Oh, really? I mean…really? Is Mycroft all right?”

“He’s healthy. Beyond that remains to be seen.”

“Need help? Mary and I can come along.”

“No. I think not.”

“Brother business?”

“I suspect so.”

“Good luck to you.”

Sherlock sighed. “Thank you. I don’t believe in luck. But if it existed, I’d need it. Mycroft has put everything backward, and I’m going to have to do his job and say all his lines, and I’m no good at it.”

“Ouch. Not good. Not even a little.”

Sherlock glowered. “He’s a complete prat.”

“Yeah, well. Look at his relatives, eh?”

“Not funny, John.”

“So why’s Mary laughing?”

“She married you. Doesn’t that say quite enough about her sense of the ridiculous?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Look, mate. Let us know if you really do need backup. But go easy on Mycroft. Whatever’s wrong, well… he’s half-way to pregnant. I figure a bit of mood-swing is likely enough. Look at it this way, he could be eating pickle ice cream and throwing up in the morning.”

“Oh, you really are determined to ruin my day, aren’t you? Goodbye, John. I’ll call when I’m headed back in, so you and Mary can get decent before I’m home. Until then, live big.”

Sherlock hung up, then called a car rental, arranging for a Land Rover. After that the drive down to Surrey was simple and quick.

Finding his brother took a little longer, but not much longer. It wouldn’t have taken even as long as it did if it hadn’t involved taking the time to talk to the stable manager to establish what horse Mycroft had ridden, and in which direction. After that it was just a matter of walking until he reached the spinney at the crest of Brockholm Hill.

The horse noticed him before Mycroft did. That wasn’t entirely surprising—even with Holmesian senses, horses noticed more. What was surprising was that Mycroft didn’t respond to his tethered mount’s snort and stamp as Sherlock approached. Sherlock was able to make it all the way up into the spinney, among the beech trees and furze, and look down over the crest to where his brother sat, leaning against the bole of an oak, looking out over the rolling land beyond.

Mycroft hadn’t even bothered to change into proper, real riding clothes, Sherlock thought. Just a Norfolk tweed jacket, a turtleneck pullover, duck pants, and paddock boots: country casual, to say the very least. For Mycroft it was the equivalent of any other human being going out in fleece exercise trousers, battered trainers, and an oversized, worn-in hoodie. Comfort clothes. Consolation clothes. Where Sherlock would wear his soft, soothing bathrobe, Mycroft was wearing country tweed. Where Sherlock would curl pitifully on the sofa at Baker Street and drink endless cups of sweet tea, Mycroft was hiding in his spinney.

“The fox goes to ground at last,” Sherlock said, softly. “What’s wrong, brother-mine?”

He was rewarded by a slight twitch and jump…all the sign Mycroft would ever give that he had failed to notice Sherlock’s approach. “You do know my security people could have stopped you?”

“I called Anthea before I set out from London. No doubt she told them to expect me.”

“All the more reason they should have stopped you, then,” Mycroft grumbled. “Pitiful if they can’t stop you even when warned.”

“I daresay Anthea told them not to,” Sherlock said, stepping cautiously through the brush and the bracken. “She’s worried about you, too.”

“Waste of good time,” Mycroft said.

“On the contrary.” Sherlock set his feet and folded his legs, going from standing to cross-legged in one fluid motion. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver flask, twisting off the top. He took a pull of brandy, then passed it toward his brother. “Drink?”

Mycroft risked a sideward glance, and sighed. He took the flask and sniffed. “Father’s ’53?”

“Seemed the best choice. Good enough. Not so good you’d scold me for wasting it on anything  less than a major event.”

“Good to know you’re not a complete barbarian, after all my efforts to teach you,” Mycroft said, and risked a shot. He offered the flask back. Sherlock waved it away and noted that Mycroft didn’t object, taking it back and cradling it between gloved palms.

“So,” he asked again. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Mycroft snapped. “Can’t a man come home for a few days without his nearest and dearest deciding he’s at death’s door or something?”

“You’re _not_ at death’s door, are you?” Sherlock asked, suddenly uncertain.

“No, dammit, I’m fine,” Mycroft said. “I told you. Brooding a bit. That’s all. Can’t a man of my age brood without the world coming to a complete stop?”

“Perhaps not so much when that man’s the British Government,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I made quite sure my official duties were covered, Sherlock.”

“So it’s not business, it’s personal.”

“Do stop deducing things. It’s tiresome of you.”

“Says the man who taught me all I know.”

“Not all. You’ve picked up a few tricks on your own.”

“The core disciplines though—you laid those down for me long ago, sensei.”

“Oh, do shut up, Grasshopper.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. At least he’d found the ever-present vein of laughter that made Mycroft endurable. “Seriously, brother-mine. I’m worried. Something’s wrong with you, and it shows. It shows enough that even non-Holmeses are starting to see it. Talk to me.”

“Is this your best attempt at ferreting out secrets, Sherlock? Because if it is, I need to give you more lessons.”

“I’m no good at ‘ferreting.’ You and Lestrade have both established that long-since. Sly, tricksy word games aren’t my style at all. This is me trying to get to your secrets with shaped PE4 charges. High explosives or nothing—that’s me. Now give.”

Mycroft scowled, took another shot of brandy, then crossed his arms on his knees and laid his head on his arms. “I was originally going to make you my estate manager,” he said, softly. “Open agreement: you’d handle the estate, marry in time, and it would all go to you and your children.”

“You can’t have intended that any time in the past two decades,” Sherlock said, horrified. “What an idea! God, Mycroft, I’d have the place bankrupt in months. Not to mention having no desire whatsoever to marry and produce little Holmeses for posterity.”

“No. That much has been obvious for decades, as you say,” Mycroft said, face still hidden in his arms.

“I don’t even really care that much about the place,” Sherlock said. “London? That’s another matter. If you were Lord of London and could leave me the living, breathing city, well… I might even consider marrying, if that was what it took. But this is…nice. But not…”

“Oh, it’s no place for a man whose preferred lifestyle involves high-speed foot chases through the Underground, death threats, and on-site murder investigations. Unless you’re interested in determining who’s been catching and killing rabbits in the lowland by the stream.”

“Probably the Harker family boys,” Sherlock said, absently. “No need to poach these days, with Wendell in software and Arvin doing well in investments, but there’s tradition to keep in mind. I daresay they keep their hand in.”

“You’d have been a good lord of the manor, if it had suited you,” Mycroft said, softly.

“I’d have hated every last second of it.”

“Well, there is that.”

“You’d have loved it.”

“I do love it. And thank God, I can manage it without giving up my day job…with a bit of help here and there. Wainsbury’s proving a good estate manager. She’s got a knack.”

“It will be a treasure to pass on to your daughters.” Mycroft shrugged, and Sherlock knew he’d reached the core of the problem. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve got cold feet, Mycroft. Not when we’ve all worked out that it’s a practical solution after all.”

Mycroft shrugged again.

“It’s not that you don’t want them,” Sherlock said, studying his brother’s back. Like Sherlock, Mycroft was long and lean, with a slim back and shoulders that were strong, but not exceptionally wide. With his face hidden he looked almost boyish in his miserable huddle. “You want those imaginary daughters like you want air, open land, and world peace. So…what is it?”

Mycroft just shrugged again, and Sherlock exploded in annoyance.

“Damn you, Mycroft, only you could trap me like this. I don’t _do_ people things. I don’t do feelings. I don’t do happy families. Would you stop being me and start being you again, because I’m getting a stomach ache and my head hurts and I want to go home to Baker Street and crawl into my bathrobe and sulk, and I can’t while you’re up here in the spinney doing all the sulking the family can bear.”

“Too bad. Get stuffed,” Mycroft grumbled…but Sherlock could hear that faint trace of humor again. It was always the best way to lure Mycroft out.

“Come, come, dearie, can’t keep secrets from baby brother,” Sherlock wheedled, intentionally sounding as old and querulous as possible. “Do tell your little Sherlock, now, like a good boy.”

Mycroft sputtered, laughter muffled in tweed sleeves.

Sherlock nodded to himself. “God, Mycroft, you actually do need a brother, don’t you? Who knew? Come on. What’s wrong?”

Mycroft sighed. “It wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone.”

Sherlock frowned to himself. “What?”

“It wasn’t supposed to hurt anyone. I knew you wouldn’t mind—all I was really worried about was that you’d want to be the one to have children, and I didn’t worry much about that. And Cousin Fredrick won’t give a damn. It wasn’t supposed to _hurt_ anyone.”

“I can’t see that it does,” Sherlock said, considering the matter. “I really don’t care. And, no, Fredrick won’t spend five seconds on it, beyond perhaps a dirty joke or two about immaculate conception and gay sex. Who else matters?”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

“You’re being difficult, you know,” Sherlock said.

“Privilege of the eldest,” Mycroft answered. “I have to have some prerogatives.”

“No, you really don’t. Not when you look like you’re about to cut off your nose to spite your face. You want those children, Mycroft. It’s not just family pride and concern for the inheritance. You want those children. But you’re on the edge of talking yourself out of them for some reason, and I can’t imagine why.”

“Not everyone has the luxury of just choosing to have children, regardless of little things like biology and marital status,” Mycroft said. “It’s not as though it’s a universal option.”

“No. But it’s an option open to you. The British Government has choices not everyone else can count on. For that matter, the senior Holmes has choices most people can’t hope for.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“The senior Holmes declines.”

Sherlock growled. “No. He bloody does not. You want that family, Mycroft. You’ve got support out the arse. And you have the ability to do it. You are not giving up.”

Mycoft didn’t answer.

“Fine. Tell me why? Who is this hypothetical ‘hurt person’ you’re moping over?”

Mycroft was silent.

“Damn it, Mycroft…”

After a moment Mycoft said, softly, “It wasn’t obvious to me, either. At least I’m not the only arse in the family.”

Sherlock ran that through the processing units, and came up blank. He ran it again. Still blank. He scowled. “For goodness sake, a hint, Mycroft. Data. Give me something to work with.”

“The data’s all there, Sherlock. You’re just not looking at it. But you’re not the only one. I didn’t think of it till it hit me in the face.”

“Until what hit you in the face?”

“That some people don’t have my options.”

“We’ve been over this bit, Mycroft.”

“Yes. We have.”

Sherlock growled like a furious terrier. “Mycroft Holmes, stop being such a prat!”

Mycroft turned his head and glared at him. “Not being a prat.”

“Are so.”

“Not my fault you don’t see it.”

“Is if you’re not giving me the same data that let you work out whatever idiot idea you came up with. Give.”

Mycroft huffed. “Don’t want to.”

“You sound like a seven-year-old. A sulky one at that.”

The horse, which apparently had comic instincts, snorted what sounded like agreement and pawed the loose, leaf-strewn soil.

“See,” Sherlock said. “Even the horse knows you’re being a clot.”

Mycroft grimaced, but gave in. “All right. All right. Lestrade.”

The penny dropped, the other shoe fell, the cat raced out of the bag, the pig squealed—and Sherlock caught on.

“Oh. Lestrade.”

“Yes.”

“Mmmm. Yes. I hadn’t considered.”

“No. One doesn’t, does one?”

Sherlock frowned, and reached for the flask, taking a fast pull. “You can’t quit, though. That won’t make it any better, at this point.”

“It won’t make it as much worse as keeping on, though, will it?”

Sherlock took another pull. “There is that.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe John might have some idea what to do about this?”

Mycroft looked at his brother, fondly. “As wise as John Watson is, brother-dear, I don’t think he’s likely to have a solution that will prevent DI Lestrade from suffering from the contrast between his circumstances and mine.”

“He’s quite good at the people-thing,” Sherlock said, forlornly. “I’ve found him quite useful in that respect.”

“No doubt you have,” Mycroft said. “But this is somewhat different, isn’t it?”

“Mmmm. Offer to pay for…. No. Even I can see that offering Lestrade a baby-scholarship won’t do.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed with a shudder. “Definitely not good. Pride. Dignity. All that….”

“Make him an honorary uncle? Or godfather, or something?”

“Rather like rubbing it in, don’t you think?”

“Mmmm.”

Sherlock brooded. Mycroft stole the flask back and shook it, contemplatively. “Not much left.”

“No. I’d only planned for you to drink it.”

“Then you should have left me to it.”

“Oh, do stop whinging and just finish it. I’m not going to apologize for finding all this a bit of a shock.”

Mycroft smirked and tossed back the last of the brandy, then sighed. “So. That’s that. I can’t think of any way of proceeding that won’t break a good man’s heart. And I refuse to do it. And that’s all there is to it.”

“Balderdash. Lestrade would be the first to kick your arse for that.”

“Then he’ll have to do so, because I’m not going any further with it.”

“At least talk to him.”

“About what? Sherlock, the man went over fifteen years trying for what I’m able to just…pick up like jackstraws, at will. And he can’t, through no fault of his own. It’s not fair.”

“Some things aren’t. That doesn’t mean you give up what you want. Mycroft, I think you’re insane…but I also think you need this. Don’t quit.”

“One doesn’t…flaunt one’s advantages. Not like this. Not when it’s just short of cruelty.”

Sherlock roared his frustration, causing the poor horse to rabbit-hop in reaction, and a bevy of quail to burst from cover. They flew off in a spatter of beating wings. “Talk to him. Maybe he can see an answer we can’t. Maybe he’d actually _like_ a baby-scholarship. At the very least, he’d know you understand. That’s got to be worth something, doesn’t it?”

The question in his voice was real—pitiful and slightly petulant, the whine of a man who was never quite certain that emotional reactions would make any sense to him at all…or match what he found logical.

Mycroft grimaced. “Maybe. Perhaps. It might just cause more pain, though.”

“Well you’ve got to do something,” Sherlock grumbled. “You can’t go this far and then just stop.”

“I can, though.”

“No. You can’t. The train has left the station, Mycroft. It’s all out in the open now. So you’ve got to do something—besides sit up in the spinney and mope.”

Mycroft stretched, and pulled himself to his feet. “I suppose. It was quiet, up here, though.”

“It will be again, brother.” Sherlock frowned, rising also in fluid grace.  “Is this one of those times I’m supposed to give you a brotherly hug, or something?”

“Better if we take that as read, Sherlock.” Mycroft smiled, a bit sadly. “You’ve already gone above and beyond the line of duty. Well played, brother. Well played.”

“I did a good Mycroft imitation?”

“No. But you did a superb Sherlock.” Mycroft considered, then said, softly. “And while you aren’t required to hug me, there’s no reason I can’t hug you. Is there?”

Sherlock scowled, and studied his toes. “Mfrepb.”

“What?”

“Mmmblemfmp.”

Mycroft smiled and hauled his brother in. It was a short hug, and soft as leaf-fall. But it rounded out the afternoon nicely.


	4. The Office in Babylon-on-Thames

_Lestrade: Holmes, if your brother’s telling me the truth, you’re being an idiot. Don’t make me come over there and straighten you out._

_Excuse me? MH_

_Lestrade: Oh, don’t come all high-nosed at me. Kids. You’re supposed to be planning kids. Idiot._

_I’m simply reconsidering my options. I’m a very busy man, with extensive obligations. I’m not convinced I’d be a proper parent. MH_

_Lestrade: Crap. You’ll be brilliant at it.  Just like everything else you do. Idiot._

_You don’t detect a wee bit of contradiction in that text, DI Lestrade? MH_

_Lestrade: Don’t sass me, Mycroft. I’ve seen you with a junkie draped over your three-piece and puke on your shoes._

_Indeed. All the more reason to doubt my skills. See where they got me? MH_

_Lestrade: F*CK. You’re going to make me come over there, aren’t you?_

_Not at all, DI Lestrade. I don’t see that you’ve any obligation to worry yourself about me at all. MH_

_Lestrade: Are you at the Whitehall office, the one in Thames House, or the little one no one’s supposed to know about in Croyden?_

_DI Lestrade, seriously, I don’t know what my brother’s said, but there’s no need to go out of your way. MH_

_Lestrade: Just answer the question, Mycroft? KISS. Keep it simple, stupid. Whitehall, Thames House, Croyden. Name one._

_Actually, do you recall the one in Babylon-on-Thames? MH_

_Lestrade: Oh. That one. Yeah. Ok. Be ready: I’ll be over in about a half-hour._

_Really, there’s no need. MH_

_Lestrade: Then you’re going to be inviting me to the christenings, yeah?_

_(text silence)_

_Lestrade: Yeah. Thought so. If Sherlock can’t sucker me, you sure as heck can’t. See you._

_Sigh. If you insist, I can send a car around for you. MH_

_Lestrade: Not a chance, sunshine. If I know you you’ll just have the driver drop me off at my own flat. I’ll take a taxi, thanks._

_You know me too well. MH_

_Lestrade: Yeah. Seven years working with a man will do that to you. Don’t you dare cut and run or you’re grounded from your next Russia trip._

_Don’t tempt me, Lestrade. Putin’s getting on my last nerve, and I’d love an excuse to stay away. MH_

_Lestrade: Smartass. Just get out the scotch and prepare for the lecture, you stupid berk._

 

“Scotch and glasses are on the desk. I’d as soon give the lecture a miss, though,” Mycroft said as Anthea ushered Lestrade into the little office in the MI6 building.

“So—christenings? Are you going to let me stand godfather to your babies?”

“Mmmmph.”

“Holmes, for the record, I’d _like_ to stand godfather for your babies.”

Mycroft Holmes looked at Lestrade warily. “I’m sure you would, Lestrade. And I’m equally sure you’d be a superb example of moral rectitude—a role model for any offspring I might have. But in all honesty, I’ve had serious second thoughts.”

“Sherlock says you’re worried I’m going to get all bent out of shape because I couldn’t have kids.”

“Sherlock says entirely too much.”

“Holmes-speak for ‘he’s a big blabber-mouth.’”

“Erm…”

“Am I right?”

“Somewhat.”

“Weasel. Try ‘Nailed it in one, DI Lestrade! Your mastery of the Holmes dialect is outstanding!’”

“Well, I will admit you usually manage to follow most of my commentary.”

“Yeah. So, babies. What gives?”

Mycroft Holmes shifted uneasily in the old-fashioned spinning wooden desk chair behind his desk. “I, er… found myself having second thoughts.”

“Because of me?”

“Not…precisely.”

“Holmes…”

Mycroft flinched, and busied himself pouring a glass of scotch. “It simply occurred to me I hadn’t considered the full implications of my intended plan of action. The consequences were more far-reaching than I’d originally estimated.”

“Try again.”

“I was concerned. That’s all.”

“About?”

“DI Lestrade, you’ve been a valued compatriot and an ally in a number of ways, for a number of years. Much though it pains me to admit it, though, I had rather overlooked the inevitable difficulty proximity to my reproductive project would inflict on you.”

“You’re moving out of Holmesian to High Administrative. I’m not as fluent in High Administrative. Try again, sunshine.”

Holmes hunched sullenly in his chair. “I didn’t want to hurt you, all right?”

“I’m tougher than that.”

“You shouldn’t have to be,” Holmes grumbled.

“It’s not that bad.”

“By what estimate?”

“I don’t know, Holmes,” Lestrade said, pouring himself a glass and swirling the amber liquid around. It smelled lush. “Yeah. I’m going to be honest. It…kind of shook me to hear you were planning this. But you know what? That doesn’t mean I don’t think you should do it, you know? How do you judge ‘hurt,’ anyway?”

“There are, as I see it, three axes of importance. Proximity of the victim, extent of obligation between the victim and the source of injury, and intensity of the injury done.”

Lestrade squiched his eyes tight and ran a hand over his head. “English, please, this time Holmes? You’ve moved one more story up the tower of Babel. This is hard enough without trying to translate what you’re saying out of High Bureaucratese.”

Even with his eyes shut, Lestrade found Holmes was impossible to ignore. The man sniffed, rose from his chair, paced across the floor of his office, and did something fiddly and fretful with the books and files on his bookshelf. As silences went, Mycroft Holmes’ shouted…and that was before he started talking. After?

“Very well: how much you’ve got to see, how deeply I owe you consideration, and how much it’s going to hurt you regardless. Between your involvement with me and with Sherlock, you’d be exposed to all aspects of my family eventually. If nothing else, Sherlock’s understanding of social boundaries is non-existent. He’d get you involved somehow, at some time, no matter what. As for my obligation to you? It approaches infinite, in my opinion. What you’ve done for Sherlock alone places me in a life debt to you, and what you’ve done for me in the years since I formally recruited you only adds to the obligation. As for the extent of the injury.” Holmes sighed—a deep, weary sigh. “I can’t know the exact cost of the years you and your wife spent trying to achieve a family, DI Lestrade. I can, however, speak quite directly to the cost of desiring a family, and having none…while others wallow in their riches. I know that pain far too well, and would not do that to you.”

Lestrade forced himself to open his eyes, then, studying Holmes.

Yep. Poker up his bum. Straight as a draftsman’s T-square, with the same set, graceful curve to his shoulders. Posture both professional soldiers and dancers would envy: on beyond upright. Radiating all kinds of Toffish Dignity.

“Let’s see if I have this straight. You want kids. You really want kids. You need kids, too, in a sort of secondary ‘estate has to go to someone’ fashion…but on beyond that you really, really want kids. Which makes sense to anyone who’s seen you with Sherlock this past decade. So, am I following so far?”

Holmes didn’t turn to face him, just kept fussing with the books on the shelf…but he gave a sharp, tight nod.

“Good. Great. Starting on the same page, anyway. Now, being the British Government, not to mention Mycroft F*cking Holmes, you’ve got the wherewithal to have kids. Right? Eggs, surrogates, IVF. Doesn’t matter you’re gay, doesn’t matter you’re not married, doesn’t matter you’re one of the busiest men on the planet, because money and power covers a lot of ground when you want something bad enough. Right?”

Another nod. Damn, he must have been a tough kid to raise: one of the ones who buried everything inside and needed it carefully eased out into daylight and treated gently—and Lestrade was suddenly willing to swear on a stack of Bibles and the Met Standard Operating Procedures that no one had ever actually given the poor bastard that. He was going to have to manage this conversation very carefully, lest his own pain cause him to stumble and rip through this damaged, delicate monster’s own hurt.

“Ok. Now we’re getting somewhere. So, you had it worked out. And you talked to Sherlock, to make sure he wouldn’t scream and run off and start shoving chemicals in his veins again. And he didn’t. So you began planning, and…. This is where I get confused. Everything was green for ‘go,’ and then you realized it bugged me. Which matters because…. What? Honor? Obligation? Pity?”

Mycroft gave a soft grunt of disagreement. “Not pity. Empathy, perhaps? Can you understand empathy?”

Lestrade frowned, considering. “Not a lot of difference, sunshine. You feel bad about hurting me. Empathy, pity, what’s the difference?”

“Empathy is always between equals—at least in respect to the feelings shared. One can pity what one doesn’t understand. What is held in common can only be honored and despised as one honors or despises oneself.”

Lestrade made himself stop and review that. “Damn. Holmeses. Too smart for your own good. Ok. I’ll give you that one. Nail on the head. So it’s not pity, it’s…recognition. You recognize the hurt. Right?”

Holmes finally turned away from the bookshelf and returned slowly to the desk, not meeting Lestrade’s eye. “I won’t presume to suggest I understand all aspects of your discomfort, Detective Inspector. I am aware that there’s much you’ve experienced that I have been spared. But, yes. I do understand wanting…fatherhood. Family. And knowing you will be denied it.”

“So you realized I was hurting, and you…what? Freaked out? Because…why? Because compassion? Because what?” He shook his head. “Look, mate, I’m sorry, but at some point this all falls apart. First, what makes you think I’d be any happier seeing you hurt. Equals, yeah? And… what? You’re not solving anything. Because, yeah, I hurt, but you not having the kids you want doesn’t really make it any better. I still can’t have kids, and I still can’t afford to go your route, and I still can’t afford to hire the help that would let me cope as a single father. You not having those daughters Molly Hooper showed me doesn’t actually help me any. In a horrible, sick way, it only makes it worse, because now I know you could, but you won’t. That’s one more family that won’t be born because of me.”

Holmes shook his head in mute dismay, then attempted a response.  Failed. “No, I… It’s not like… That’s not what…” He pressed his lips together tight, then, as though afraid of what might tumble out of them next. He very obviously forced himself to take a deep, cleansing breath. “It seemed…unkind. To force you to live next to that.”

“Look, mate, I live next to ‘unfair’ and ‘unkind’ every day. And, yeah, sometimes it gets under my skin. All else being equal an addicted Sherlock has a lot better chance of recovering and making good than a poor chav junkie from Brixton. You have a lot better chance of arranging for a family than I do. Class and power and money can work miracles, and only a dope thinks otherwise. But for the love of God, Mycroft, I don’t want… Look. I don’t want Sherlock to be limited to what a poor chav in Brixton can get—I just wish the chav could have what Sherlock does. Only it’s not happening, and getting pissed at Sherlock because of it is a waste of time and really bad targetting, not to mention I don’t need the grief. And if you don’t have those kids, it won’t make things better for me, it will just make things worse for you. Which would suck, because you know what? You’d be a great dad. Ok? You’d be a really great dad. And you can be. So go for it, all right? Drop a few hundred thou, buy some eggs, hire your surrogates, and pop out three-four cute little carrot-tops, all right? Just promise you’ll invite me to the christening. It’s not like the world owes me any favors, after all. I’ve earned what I’ve got—and I’ve got what I earned, and it’s going to have to do, yeah?”

After which speech DI Gregory Lestrade was treated to something he’d never encountered before: The British Government in full battle mode, fury trained on him…..

For him.

Mycroft in a white rage at Lestrade, for Lestrade’s own sake.

To begin with the man stalked—like a tiger or some other big cat. All he lacked was a tail to lash…he had the graceful, lazy, deadly amble down cold, not to mention eyes fit to freeze prey in its tracks and a growl that, while a medium tenor in comparison with Sherlock’s rumbling baritone, was not exactly lacking in timbre or resonance. And he…swatted. Not literally. He didn’t sweep out a paw and smack Lestrade. But there was something in both movement and verbal delivery that felt like a swat. Growl, growl, point made…. Pause. Growl, snarl, hiss, point made…. Pause. Smack. Smack. Swat.

“Do not dare,” he hissed, stepping toward Lestrade, “do not _dare_ suggest you don’t deserve better than you’ve received. Do you hear?”

Lestrade blinked, and involuntarily stepped back a foot. “I….”

“No. Don’t even _start_ Detective Inspector. Not one _word_. Do you have any idea—any _idea_ what I think of that reasoning? Any?”

“Um… you don’t like it?”

Ooof. Yes. Holmes really did hiss, didn’t he? Literally, not figuratively. He could give cobras lessons.

“It’s execrable. Appalling. ‘Earned what you’ve got’? More than earned it, Detective Inspector. ‘Got what you earned’? What you have received is far less than what you’ve earned. You appear to think me ignorant, when I am merely too often preoccupied, Lestrade. But I am quite aware of the people with whom I work. I am quite familiar with those to whom I entrust my brother’s safety and well-being. I know you are a good—a very good—detective, Lestrade. A good—a very good—leader of your team. A good—a very good—husband, who endured far more than you should have had to. A good man. A good leader. And, so help me, a good _father_. You think I don’t know what you’ve done for Sherlock? How far he’s come with your help? How little chance he’d have in either his sobriety or his career without your support?”

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Damn, the man was something in a temper!

“I…”

“No. Don’t start. I tried for years to help my brother, Lestrade. But it took you, then John Watson, to actually turn his life around—and if it had not been for you, there would have been no Sherlock for Watson to befriend. You’ve helped every step of the way, including during his exile. You’ve been an anchor, a guide, a friend. A _father_. Everything a father should be. I am quite aware of the inequities of life, Lestrade. I know my limits, too. I can, on occasion, save the world—or just a bit of it. But I can no more right all wrongs or even the scales of justice than anyone else. But some things are unendurable…and it was wrong…just wrong…that I would have children when someone who deserved them so much more would not. Good lord, man, you were even able to father _me_ while I was making a total bollox of just _imagining_ fatherhood.” Suddenly he seemed to deflate, a raging tiger no more, but just a very tired, shaken man, unsettled in his own heart. “If…” he swallowed. “If I could buy you a dozen children without insulting you, I’d do it, before I’d pay the price for even one of my own, you idiot. Some men deserve to be fathers, while the rest of us only dream of it.” He veered away then, back to his poker-up-his-butt stance, as he stared out the little office window.

Lestrade shook his head, wondering what hurricane he’d just been through. Hurricane Mycroft?

“Um….” He swallowed, completely rattled. “Um… I’m flattered?”

“No, you are not,” Mycroft snapped. “Merely given some small portion of the credit owed you.” He didn’t turn from the window.

“Look, Holmes. It’s… Ok. Um. This is kind of getting out of hand, here. I’m not…”

“Yes. You are.”

“….”

“Don’t, Lestrade. Just don’t. You should be a father. You _deserve_ to be a father.”

“Are you really going to be enough of an arse as to refuse to have kids just because you’re convinced I deserve ‘em too? Because if you are, you’re not half so smart as I thought you were.”

Holmes sniffed a very haughty sniff. “And you’re a valid judge?”

“Must be. Dads have to know when they’re being snowed, yeah? And you think I’m some kind of kick-ass dad. Yeah?”

Another haughty sniff, but this one with a laugh hidden somewhere in it. “Well….”

“Yeah. So. I’m glad you think I’d be a good dad. I mean, really. Honored and all that. I’m not kidding. But, damn, you jackass, it’s not like you’re sloppy seconds. Idiot. You think I don’t know what that lunatic Sherlock put you through? I was there, Holmes! Watched you hold his head over the pot and wipe his mouth after. I mean—I always prayed if I had kids, I’d never have to see one through what Sherlock put you through. And so help me, I always hoped if I had to I’d do it with half the grace you managed. Ok, you damned tosser? And you did it while second-guessing the IRA and Qaeda. I mean… come on, Holmes. You’re going to be a great father.”

Silence.

“If you don’t speak up, I’m going to have to kick your arse.”

“Sherlock suggested as much, yes.”

Thank God his voice suggested he was amused.

“Sherlock’s only stupid some of the time.”

“He’s seldom stupid. Often blind, but seldom stupid.”

“Does that mean I have to kick you?”

“Mmmmph.”

“You’re not really going to give up having kids just because you’re worried I’ll feel bad, are you?”

“I…”

“Really, don’t be a moron.”

Holmes finally turned around…and who knew the British Government could do “puppy dog eyes”? And with the built-in handicap of blue eyes, not brown? Entirely uncalled for. “If I do… would you be another uncle for them?”

“Of course.”

“And maybe tell me when I’m being an idiot?”

“Always a pleasure telling you you’re being an idiot, Holmes. Consider me on task, there, yeah?”

That wide mouth quirked in humor. “Good of you, Lestrade. Nice to know I can count on your input.”

“Hey, it’s a talent: I know stupid when I see it.”

Both snorted.

Mycroft studied the texture of the carpet at their feet. “Lestrade….”

“Yeah?”

“I… You were good with Sherlock. Very good. If I needed help…. I always thought I did better with my brother when you were my counterbalance.”

“Yeah. Well. Kids. Hard to do alone, yeah?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Y’mean… you want me to be your spotter?”

Mycroft looked relieved. “I’d be honored if you would.”

“Sort of like the buddy system, you mean?”

“Exactly. Make sure I don’t make an utter mess of it.”

“Go on. Really, you’ll be brilliant without any help at all.”

“More brilliant if I’ve got someone to help. And Sherlock’s, well…”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Sherlock’s Sherlock. He’ll be great at teaching ‘em how to violate a crime scene in ten seconds or less. But he’s no help if you need backup, is he?”

“None. So… you’ll be…what? Honorary uncle and godfather and backup father on my bad days?”

“Like I was with Sherlock?”

“I am hoping that my daughters won’t be quite as trying as Sherlock was.”

“And if they are? You ready for that Papa Holmes?”

Mycroft seemed to gather himself. “I’ll have a friend to help?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, yes. I think I’m ready.” He sighed. “You’re sure it’s not…”

“Sure.”

“I don’t want to…”

“I know, you stupid muggins.”

“Well. Good then.” Mycroft sighed, softly, and collected his glass of scotch. “Do you want to see the data on the egg donors? I can’t decide if I should go with the Irish woman from Cork or the woman from Yorkshire….”

 

And, out in the other room, monitoring all office interactions as usual, Anthea pounded her head on the desk, and muttered, “Morons. When the hell are you going to wise up and just _get a room?”_


	5. Real and Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end. For a miracle it's neither a gazillion words long, nor a puny one-shot. Hope you like the ending. (smile)

 

The British Government accepted delivery on an eight-hour old daughter on the 6th of January, 2015, said child sharing her uncle Sherlock’s birthday thanks to careful planning and a small dose of oxytocin when natural delivery slowed. The child was handed over with a minimum of ceremony in the neonatal ward of St. Bart’s. There was much signing of paperwork, much tight, controlled smiling on the part of the new father, along with diplomatic nods and thanks to the surrogate mother and her family. The child’s new, motley extended family looked on, slightly aghast.

“He hasn’t even looked at her, John,” Mary Morstan whispered softly, eyes worried.

“Shh, be patient,” Greg Lestrade said, before Watson could chime in adding his own worried observations. The older man crossed the room quietly, smiled at the nurse holding the infant, and asked if he could hold her, eyes radiating charm. The nurse melted, and soon Lestrade had the baby firmly in hand, carrying her over for the Watsons to examine and coo at.

“He still hasn’t,” John hissed, though, fretful.

“Shhhh. Wait.” Lestrade slipped a pinkie finger into the newborn’s kitten-pink palm, and smiled as she curled her fingers tight over his. “Give him time.”

“He’s too busy fussing over the scholarship arrangements for the surrogate family’s oldest,” Sherlock drawled, then peered down into the folded blankets. “Is her head supposed to be that shape?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Natural childbirth. Had to pass through the birth canal. It will de-smoosh soon enough,” Lestrade chuckled. “She’s just fine…aren’t you, sweetheart?” A finger spared the infant clutch reached delicately out and stroked a satin-soft cheek. “That’s a girl, now. You just wait, Gwen. He’ll be here soon. Give your daddy time to panic with dignity, eh? Once he can breathe again, he’ll be over. But be ready, lovie. It may take the poor dope three or four tries before he risks holding you.”

“He’s not panicking,” John Watson snapped, “he’s giving instructions on how to get out of town from here…”

“Yeah, well. They’re not used to city traffic, now, are they?” Lestrade said, calmly. “Doesn’t mean he’s not terrified, does it, now?”

“How can you tell?” Molly Hooper asked, not convinced.

“Would Mycroft Holmes ordinarily recommend driving to Basildon from St. Bart’s on the A11?”

Sherlock’s head shot up, and he clucked his disapproval. “Point taken, Lestrade. Quite unlike Mycroft.”

“Horrible way out for them,” Mrs. Hudson agreed. “Poor dears are going to have to cut back down or they’ll end up miles north of Basildon. Sherlock, love, go sort them out, will you?”

Sherlock nodded, and sloped across the room, mouth already open in mid-fraternal-insult. Mrs. Hudson leaned over the pink blanket, and cooed, “Oooh, can I hold h—“

“No,” Mycroft said, projecting his voice across the room like the professional diplomat he often was. The man could make himself heard over screaming members of the EU during budgetary talks. Making sure Mrs. Hudson heard and came to a full stop across a small hospital waiting area was nothing, in comparison. “Greg, she’s in your care. Ensure it stays that way, please.”

“All hail, mein Fuhrer,” Lestrade chuckled. He dimpled at Mrs. Hudson. “Later, love. After the new car smell has worn off, maybe.”

She pouted, but also laughed. “First sign of interest he’s shown.”

“Uh-uh. He’s all Holmes radar right now. Just hard to read.” He looked into the baby face surrounded by pink flannel. Brown eyes gazed up at him, wide and ill-focused, but trying to sort the senses that came in. “Shhh, love. If you’re like your daddy, it will all make way too much sense way too soon. Just relax and let us take care of you for now.” He hummed softly, tucking the child into the curve of elbow and arm, close against his chest.

“I though he picked the strawberry blonde in Yorkshire as the egg mother,” John Watson said, frowning. “The linguistics whiz with blue eyes…”

“No. Last minute change. Went with the Breton physics grad student at Cambridge,” Mary replied, softly, gentle amusement radiating. She glanced up at her husband, and said, very softly, “Brown eyes, darker auburn hair.”

Watson tracked her reasoning, and grinned. Both smiled watching Lestrade gaze brown-eyes to brown-eyes with baby Gwendolyn.

At the far end of the room the final stages were under way. The birth-mother asked, softly, a bit fearfully, “Are you going to hold her, now?”

“He will in time,” Greg called back. “Why don’t you all come on over, now, and give her a last look, eh?” He glanced up, smiling at the worried woman, radiating confidence and security. “You did a great job, you know. She’s a knock-out.”

The surrogate slipped quietly across the room and leaned over the little girl. “So sweet,” she said, a bit sadly. “They’re so very sweet.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed, then said, softly, “He’s wired, and I don’t think he’s going to hold her till you’re gone. Maybe not even until we’ve chased his friends and family out, too. Scared to death. But I promise, he’s going to be a great dad. That’s why he’s so scared: wants to do everything just right, y’know? He’ll be good to her. I promise.”

The woman looked at him with big, worried eyes. “You’re sure?”

“Certain, ma’am. Seen him with another kid, you see. All grown up, now, or near as makes any difference. But he’s a good dad.”

“And…you? You’re his…”

“Just his spotter, ma’am. Friend and colleague.”

“But you’re…”

“Going to make sure they’re both fine. Yeah.”

Her eyes flicked back and forth, evaluating the tall man in the three-piece suit giving her husband final directions to navigate London, and the other man, almost as tall, dressed in a jumper and rumpled trousers, rocking the baby who’d lain curled in her womb mere hours before. She smiled. “You promise, though…”

“Yeah. I promise.”

She reached out a finger and stroked the little curl of titian hair on the baby’s forehead. “Gwendolyn. Her name is Gwendolyn.”

“Yes.”

“And her daddies love her.”

He blinked, saying only. “Yes.”

She nodded. “It matters, what I do. It really does, doesn’t it?”

“Matters like crazy, ma’am.”

She nodded. “If you can bear to, write sometimes. Send me pictures. Let me see how she grows up.”

“I will.”

“First birthday?”

“Yeah.”

“Trip to the zoo?”

“That, too.”

“Playing Hop-on-Pop and making Mr. Three-piece look as rumpled as you?”

“Oh, hell, yes.”

They laughed, then she sighed. “Time for me to go, then. Any last thing I can do for you?”

“Get the lanky brunet to walk you out to the car park, or he’s going to pick and peck at his brother for hours. I’ll never get Mycroft sitting down with Gwen if Sherlock keeps after him.”

 

“And the others?”

“They’re easier. I’ll just give ‘em the look.”

“Bet you can, too,” she laughed.

“Can’t run an investigation team if you can’t give the look.”

She nodded, collected her husband, her daughter, and Sherlock Holmes, and disappeared from the room.

Lestrade caught John Watson’s eye, and jerked his chin, whispering, “Clear ‘em on out, eh?”

Watson nodded, and collected Molly, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson. “How far?”

“Oh, hell, peek through the viewing window for all I care. Just give him a bit of room to hyperventilate in peace.”

“Why don’t we go to the coffee shop in the West Wing and get everyone coffee and pastries,” Molly said to Mrs. Hudson. “Give them room.”

Mrs. Hudson, grinning knowingly, agreed.

A moment later there was no one in the room but Lestrade, baby Gwen, and a very tall, very nervous father. Lestrade got up and jerked his chin at the chair, hitching his hips on the edge of the adjoining table. “Sit, you great idjit.”

Mycroft licked his lips and sat, accepting the little pink bundle.

“A little pink lump, wet at one end, loud at the other, and messy no matter which way I turn it. That’s what you said, right? All that time ago?”

“Don’t ask me. You’re the one with the eidetic memory, mate.”

“And real. Not perfect, you said. Real.”

“Maybe I was a bit wrong. Maybe she’s perfect and real.”

“Real will do,” Mycroft said, huskily, and seemed to flow closer around his child, head bowing low over her. “Real _is_ perfect. It’s all she has to be.”

Lestrade snorted, but spared him predictions of late-night colic and revisionist philosophy. “I’ll leave you two together, then,” he said, fondly.

“No. Please…stay?”

“Y’don’t need me, mate. You need time to get to know your kid.”

“Stay.”

Lestrade cocked his head. “You’re sure?”

“Certain. Stay.”

Lestrade considered, and willingly surrendered. He squatted in front of Holmes and his child, and the two leaned in together, whispering as they admired the perfect, real vision lying in Mycroft’s arms.

Out in the hall, looking through the tinted glass of the viewing window, Mary Watson said, softly, “Are they you and Sherlock? Or you and me? Best friends forever, or lovers for life?”

Watson shrugged. “Does it matter?”

She smiled. “Probably not. Either way, it’s for keeps, isn’t it?”

He gripped her hand tightly. “For keeps,” he agreed. “Either way.”


	6. Epilogue: And Shine the Sun to Shame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I found I simply could not resist an epilogue and nice, round happy ending. So sue me. I'm a total sentimental slob.

 

Even after the birth of his daughter, Mycroft Holmes visited Lestrade’s offices at the Met far less often than Lestrade visited the British Government in his own varied offices—or spent time in Mycroft’s recently purchased flat off Hyde Park. Not that Mycroft never brought Gwen by to see her “godfather-honorary-uncle-backup dad.” It was just that there really was so much less reason for The British Government to go to the Man from the Met, than there was reason for the Man from the Met to attend upon the British Government…not to mention that The British Government had by far the better security in place, which made open discussions ranging from covert ops to toilet training of infants ever so much easier. So Lestrade was both surprised and unprepared when Holmes materialized outside his office one afternoon. More surprised as he didn’t have Gwen on his shoulder flirting with everyone from Anderson on. When Mycroft rapped at the door with his umbrella, Lestrade called him in.

“’Sup, oh thou great mandarin of mystery?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You’re a terrible tease. As bad as my brother.”

“Bite your tongue. Sherlock achieves levels I can only observe with the awe of the duffer for the true artist.”

Mycroft sniffed, and settled himself in the guest’s chair in front of Lestrade’s desk with a righteous attitude. “Allow me to judge the quality of your torment myself. You’re quite as accomplished as Sherlock. Just less malicious.”

“Well that’s something. At least you see a difference.”

The look he gained for his efforts was dark and disapproving. “Someday I shall break you of that reflexive self-deprecation, DI Lestrade.”

“I’m not an easy man to break, Mr. Holmes.”

“Merely one of your many virtues.”

“You sweet-talker, you. Seriously, what’s up, eh? Gwen’s ok, isn’t she?”

“You’d have heard already if she were not, and you know it.”

“Well. I do tend to hope you’ll keep me in the loop.”

“Your name is first on the emergency call list, Lestrade. For a number of things it’s before mine. For a very few others it’s in a dead-heat with Anthea’s after mine, but only because there are certain powers and privileges Anthea and I can invoke without challenge that are not accessible to you. Should Gwen’s well-being demand access to a Trident warhead, Anthea’s in a better position to see to it. But for most other things you’re the go-to name on the form. We’ve been through this: you have full parental privilege, limited only by my priority. If I die, you’re next in line. You _know_ this.”

Lestrade snorted, and rolled his eyes. “You’re coming on strong, today, Holmes. Very stick-up-your-butt. If I didn’t see the umbrella by the chair next to you, I’d be worried. Now would you for God’s sake tell me why you’re here? Not that you’re not welcome, but your overall attitude is beginning to make me twitchy and nervous, ok?”

Holmes sighed. “As well it might. If you must know, I’m being Machiavellian and manipulative. I have something I want to bring up with you, and decided to pursue it here, where I’m reasonably sure you won’t risk making a scene.”

Lestrade moaned, and let his head thump to the desk-top. “Doooooomed. I’m doomed, aren’t I?”

“For certain definitions of the term ‘doomed,’ yes. At least, I do hope so.”

“Myyyyyyycroft…..”

“Oh, do stop whinging. It’s unbecoming in a man of your age and stature.”

Lestrade heaved a gusty sigh, fluttering the paperwork on his desk. “All right. All right. What trouble are you up to? You do know you’re a devil in bespoke, don’t you?”

“Better a well-dressed devil, after all. Do sit up, DI Lestrade? If Gwen were here she’d be very worried about you, you know.”

“Which is why you left her home, yeah? So you could be a stinker and I could moan and groan and she’d be well out of it.”

“Precisely, my dear Detective Inspector. Do sit up. Please?”

Lestrade snorted. “Devil.  All right. But be gentle. I’m at a delicate stage in life, aren’t I?”

Mycroft smiled, primly, waiting for Lestrade to sit and straighten himself. As he waited, his eyes sobered. Lestrade, looking at him, went sober himself.

“You really are planning something dire.”

Mycroft’s lips twitched. “Not… I…” He paused, and started again, cautiously. “It’s not intended as dire, my dear. But…” He huffed in exasperation, then. “I’m being a fool. This will be much easier if I cease trying for a soothing preamble.” He reached into his inner jacket pocket, drawing out a long legal envelope. “My dear friend, your birthday is approaching, and I have a present for you… and I will be deeply disappointed if you do not accept it.” He reached across the space between the chair and the desk, placing the envelope delicately on the surface, square in front of Lestrade. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Lestrade picked the envelope up with wary consideration. He stroked the rich ivory paper with one finger, and looked knowingly across to Mycroft, who sat in tense anticipation, eyes tracking every move—every breath. “This is big, isn’t it? Big enough you expect me to squall.”

A curt nod.

Lestrade sighed. “And it matters enough to you that if I do squall, it’s going to hurt, right?”

Another nod.

“Damn, but you can be a hard man to deal with, Mycroft. I’d have been happy with a few of those nice cigars you keep for VIPs and a humorous card, you know. I really would. That and dinner at yours with Gwennie and cake and candles is plenty.”

“Open it, damn it,” Mycroft growled, almost in a whisper. “Please, Greg, just open it.”

And Mycroft never called him just “Greg” except when he was all soft underbelly and sentiment, Lestrade thought. He sighed and went fishing for the letter-opener that had come with the office set when he was given his DI rank over a decade before, and which was usually lost under the mountains of files and forms.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Mycroft snapped. He stood, snatched back the envelope, drew a delicate mother-of-pearl penknife from his pocket, and quickly sliced the top open, handing it back with a huff, and sitting again. He flounced hard enough that even his trim, dapper Burberry gave a Sherlockian floof. He glowered, waiting for Lestrade to proceed.

The DI carefully drew out the contents, unfolding legal documents printed on top-grade paper, with many codicils laid out in bulleted ranks. He frowned, and a faint shake came to his hands. He took his time. Years of police work had taught him how to wade through legal terminology and bureaucratic forms, and he wasn’t going to rush himself, even after the meaning and intent became clear. Only after he’d been through carefully once did he risk a look at Mycroft.

“It’s not charity,” Mycroft said, before Lestrade could say anything. “It’s a _gift_. One I’ve wanted to give you for years…since before Gwen, even. You can’t say no. I’m not having it—you’re accepting, Lestrade.”

Lestrade was listening carefully, and, yes… the tone gave it away. It wasn’t an order. It was a plea. He was going to have to be very gentle.

“Mycroft,” he said, quietly. “I’m going to be fifty-three. A bit late for this, don’t you think?”

“That will only get worse,” Mycroft said. “And you’d never make that argument against me having more.”

“You’ve got options I don’t, sunshine.”

“No. I don’t.” Mycroft scowled. “You didn’t read it carefully, if you think that.”

Lestrade’s mouth tightened. “I read it. It’s…generous. Insane, lovely, and generous. But how am I supposed to make it work, eh? Or explain it to this lot?” He gestured, indicating all the Met stretched out beyond the office walls. His team, his superiors. “They know perfectly well I can’t afford the cost of IVF, much less the kind of care and support you can provide Gwen, Mycroft. If nothing else, it compromises me. It’s an amazing bribe. Overwhelming. But…”

“It’s not a bribe and you know it.”

“I know, love. I know. It’s you wanting to give what you know I’d love. But…”

Mycroft glared at him. “I knew you’d be difficult. But it’s not half so hard as you’re making out, Lestrade. First, it’s time for you to move on. I know you love your work, but it’s time to either move up to Chief—more money, more resources, less field work. Or accept my standing offer to move over to my side of things, and turn analyst. You’d be superb…and it’s more suited to you these days than it was even five years ago. Either way, it’s less unusual for you to have the resources to do this, and the time and security to enjoy it. To be a real parent. No more nights up at midnight, no more calls to emergencies. It’s not like you’d be the only one making changes. I’ve been shifting the away work onto my protégés this past decade. Time to change the guard… and enjoy a few pleasures while you still can.”

Lestrade looked at the papers spread out in front of him. He stroked them smooth. “Mycroft, this covers all the costs of IVF—egg donors, fertilization, implantation, surrogacy. And gives me access to everything you give Gwennie. How am I going to explain it? Not just to them—to me? And how’s it supposed to be practical? Gwennie’s life runs out of your flat, Mycroft. Day care, pre-school, zoo trips… all working out of one home base. If I’m going to use it, how does that work?”

Mycroft went mulish. “I honestly don’t care, Greg. Explain it however you like. Accept it on whatever terms you choose. Make it work any way that’s possible. It’s carte blanche…if you understand the term.”

Lestrade snorted. “Now I do know you’re upset. You’re getting snippy and bratty.”

“Of course I am. You’d try the patience of a saint, Lestrade! This should not be so hard.”

“Mycroft,” Lestrade said with gentle exasperation, “this… it’s something you’d give a partner, or family. Someone you were ready to let move in with you, one way or another. Permanently, too—not just ‘for now.’ Something you might offer Sherlock, maybe. Not me.”

“I assure you, I would infinitely prefer inviting you to live with me than Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. “You know perfectly well what he’s like. I won’t have him anywhere near my refrigerator. Not until Gwennie’s reached her majority _and_ been given the entire MI6 course in biohazards.”

“Look… Mycroft…. I can’t do that. Someday you may yet find someone you want to partner with. What happens if I’m there in the middle of your flat, blundering around, filling up space, getting in the way… I won’t do that to you.”

Mycroft went still and small—small in ways a tall, imposing man should not be able to manage. Lestrade waited.

And waited, beginning to frown.

And waited…

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft looked down at his neatly gloved hands. “I already have a partner,” he said, very quietly indeed. “I just wish… I just wish he’d move in with me. On any terms whatsoever. It doesn’t have to be… I know we haven’t… I’m not asking…”

“Oh.” Lestrade’s voice shook. “I…see.” He touched the papers on the desk again. “You’re right. This _is_ a really big gift. Isn’t it? All of you…yeah?”

Mycroft just nodded, still staring at his hands, picking at the seams of his gloves.

“Mycroft…”

“Any terms. I’ll buy the flat one storey up, and you can have yours and I can have mine. Whatever works. If you find someone to marry, that’s all right—just don’t leave Gwennie and me alone. We’ll find a way, so long as you let us.”

“Idiot,” Lestrade said, softly. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

“You’ll say yes?”

“Thinking, sunshine. Thinking. Give me a moment, all right?” He considered. “You prefer me in that flat up above?”

Mycroft shook his head, mutely.

“Could have said something earlier, you know.”

“Slow. Busy with Gwennie.”

“Bit bashful?”

Mycroft sparked, then, scowling. “Well at least I’m not the one moping around convinced no one wants a fifty-two-year-old DI from a middle-class family in Somerset.”

“All right, point scored.” He looked at the paperwork again, humming softly. “This is pretty much all or nothing, the way I see it. Partners all the way, big family. The whole nine yards.” He leafed through the stacked sheets. “Kids. My name and yours both on the emergency call lists. Take turns walking the baby on colic nights. Both rearrange our careers to make it all hang together. Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder you were scared.”

“Mmmm. So…?”

“So.”

“Which is it going to be? All? Or…nothing?”

Lestrade continued looking at the papers. Only slowly did he say, “I think…. I think maybe all. If you want that. All sounds good.”

And, finally, the British Government smiled, and the sun was put to shame.

 


	7. Epilogue Redux: Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? The boys insisted they weren't quite done.

 

“Can we talk?”

Mycroft looked up from the latest raft of reports heaped gigabytes deep on his tablet. “That has a worrying sound to it. Have I done something wrong?”

Lestrade snorted. “Besides putting the toilet paper wrong-way-round on the roller? Not hardly.”

“It’s right-way-around, and I’m not the one who puts it that way. That’s young Jeffries, from Household. And if I’ve done nothing wrong, what else requires discussion? No problems with Gwen?”

“No…and you’d have already heard if there were.”

“Your health?”

“According to that raft of doctors you’ve trotted me past, I’m about as healthy as a fifty-three-year-old who eats too many doughnuts and spends too much time at his desk can expect to be. And if that damned trainer you sicced on me has a thing to say about it, I’ll live forever. Which is too long when the bastard’s making me run five miles every morning.” He glowered at Mycroft. “Going to be a domestic rebellion if this keeps up, Mycroft. Just warning you. Rapine and pillage on Hyde Park Square.”

“Pillage only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, rapine by prior appointment, and I’ve got certain stipulations, love. Other than a few restrictions on how rough is rough, though, it’s all good. Is your new exercise regimen what you wanted to see me… Hmm. No. It’s not, is it?”

Lestrade slipped into the office of the Hyde Park flat and closed the door behind him. “No. Not really.”

Mycroft, as a rule, fought hard not to subject the few people he really cared deeply about to Holmesian observation and analysis. He was quite sensible enough to realize that hyper-observation and hoo-doo diagnostics gave most people the heebie-jeebies on good days, and led to tantrums on bad. Sometimes, though, the response was reflexive—and the more  worried he was, the harder it was to cut the dataflow and extrapolation off at will.

For the first time in his life, he had a partner… a real, full-time, committed partner. Not a quick lay, not a brief and passionate _affaire de Coeur,_ certainly not the sort of strategically formulated Mata Hari assignation he would, occasionally, arrange as one of the “things he did for England” as a young man. He had a partner he adored far beyond the point he had the nerve to confess, even to said partner. Lestrade was here, living in his flat, helping raise his daughter, planning their future family with him—and not yet formally contracted to him, in a civil union or otherwise. Even if he had been…the man had been divorced once already. Presumably he knew all civil ties could be cut.

Mycroft was terrified that someday Lestrade would wake up and realize just what he’d allied himself with, and high-tail it for parts unknown. As a result The British Government was having a very hard time not using Holmesian diagnostics on every interaction, from “where’s my toothbrush,” to “pass the butter, love.” As for “We have to talk,” followed by closed office doors and worried expressions?

Panic and lightening mental computations. If Mycroft had been as given to doing verbal running commentary as Sherlock was, it would have sounded like an auctioneer on cocaine reading scientific notes with arch commentary—as run on  high-speed playback.

Informal dress; a good sign, that—Mycroft could not imagine Lestrade doing the “goodbye, we can always be friends” talk in fleece trousers, a tee-shirt, and robe. The “I hate you to death” talk, yes…fury was no respecter of wardrobe. But while Greg didn’t care about fashion to a great degree, he’d at least have the sense to know it was easier to cut and run if you were wearing a jacket, a button-down, and trousers. And he didn’t read as angry, or even upset. Worried? Yes. Guilty? A bit.

Was he thinking better of this?

Nooooooo. Ignoring the terrified drum of his own pulse, Mycroft concluded that Lestrade didn’t seem the kind of guilty that would suggest a parting of the ways. More as though he were concerned about something that he expected Mycroft to dislike or be hurt by in regards to their ongoing negotiation of a shared life.

Definitely not the direction in which the toilet paper was loaded. Mycroft had avoided the entire toothpaste cap issue thanks to a clever suggestion from Anthea, and now a quite effective pump-bottle stood beside their shared sink. Their hearts beat as one regarding strong tea, medium toast, and the presence of both butter and jam on the breakfast tray. Sex was proving rewarding to both…a relief, as they’d opted for partnership before testing those waters.

Things were good. Mycroft was sure things were good. But…

Data-data-data-data-data: the pull of skin over skull, the set of shoulders, eyes glancing at the files spread on a side table…

IVF files. Files on egg donors, files on methods of sperm selection, methods of filtering for healthy embryos, files on surrogates, files on…

Data-data-data-data-data: the turn of Lestrade’s head during a conversation a week ago, the hesitation in his voice, the slow increase in time and attention he’d given Gwen, his concern over the genetic issues that had led Greg and his first wife’s problems with fertility.

“It’s about the child. Your child.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mycroft, of all the times to go all Holmes on me…” Lestrade huffed. “But, yeah.”

“You…are having second thoughts.”

“Yes and no?”

“Which? Yes? Or no?”

“Just… Look. I love kids. Want kids. Want to be a dad. Not going to argue with anyone about that. But there were reasons I couldn’t have them before.”

“All of which can be circumvented,” Mycroft pointed out. “And none of which have to be passed on to another generation.”

“Yeah, ok. But—all that fuss. All that expense. Mycroft, there are kids who need homes. And families. Kids I don’t need to go the IVF route to have.”

“Adopt?”

“Adopt. Foster. A Sherlock has chances a poor chav from Brixton doesn’t get. Unless someone with Sherlock’s advantages hands those chances sideways.”

Mycroft was silent. Lestrade sighed, and sat heavily on a small bench by the office door. “I was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”

Mycroft’s hand raised in a flick, trying to brush away Lestrade’s estimation of the situation. “Nothing so simple, my dear.” He rose and poured them both a brandy, not even asking if Lestrade was interested. He handed the big balloon glass to his partner, then said, quietly, “Would you understand if I said that seeing one damaged, socially handicapped genius through life, through addiction, through desperate troubles… being brother to Sherlock has a high price tag. And, yes: it’s quite unfair that Sherlock could draw on my resources for all these years, and your hypothetical young chav from Brixton can’t. But I’d be lying, love, if I said I wanted to foster a child. A child is gamble enough without a history coming in the door with him. Or her. And…” He hesitated, ashamed to admit limits to this man who, for some mad reason, admired him. At last he grimaced. “Honesty compels me to admit, my dear. I’m… tired. And so very grateful that Gwen doesn’t have to deal with some of the challenges I faced, much less poor Sherlock was born to. Do you understand?”

Lestrade breathed out, surprised. “Ah. I…hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“No need, before. Your dreams were your own alone, until recently.”

“Yeah. But… Sorry, Mycroft. I’ve… seen what it cost you.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I don’t regret the cost. I’m just not sure I can bear to take on another of the sort with my eyes open, knowing what I’m signing on for. A child is enough of a gamble without raising the odds against you.”

Lestrade nodded. “Fair enough.”

Mycroft walked over to the window, and looked out toward Hyde Park. It was a pleasant day. Young Gwen was out in the park with one little French _au pair_ and four security guards. His daughter, he knew, was a child of privilege, even more than he and Sherlock had been. He was the British Government, after all. His parents had merely been good old County blood, and sensibly invested wealth…wealth Mycroft had vastly increased just through strong analytical skills and the ability to suck down data unavailable to the vast majority of investors… and that was restricting himself to data he could use legally. Data that would never even be imagined by the parents of Lestrade’s hypothetical chav from Brixton.

“There are other ways to share our advantages,” he said, softly. “I have no objection to most of them. Contributing to support for those who need help. Scholarships. Volunteer work, if you wish…though I warn you, I’ve remarkably little talent for connecting with most people. Not as bad as Sherlock, but still, a social nightmare. But I’d give years of my life trying, if you wished.”

“Yeah. I’d like that,” Lestrade said…

And…

Data-data-data-data….

There was too much sadness left in Lestrade’s voice. Too many regrets.

“Thanks for listening, anyway,” Lestrade said, standing. He walked across the room to return the brandy snifter to the sideboard, looking at it with the wry, amused expression of a man fascinated to find himself in a world of brandy snifters and discussions of how to spread the wealth.

“I’m a diplomat,” Mycroft said, suddenly, in a rush. “More even than a member of the secret service. I’m a man of compromise.”

“Yeah?”

He felt a crooked grin twist his mouth. “’Yeah.’ Wanna make a deal wit’ me, DI Lestrade?”

Lestrade snorted at the attempt at a hoodlum’s tough talk. “What’s in it for me, eh? Gonna talk deal, you gotta talk benefits, yeah?”

Mycroft turned, hitching his hips on the window sill. He smiled, beginning to feel hope and wit both move through him. “Yeah. Benefits. So, here’s for you, DI Lestrade. Two scholarships to Kings, from first form to graduation, for any two children of your choice. You pick. Two more to uni—again, your pick. We’ll set up a trust fund. Four kids per year you can count on getting out of Brixton. Or Croyden. Or Leeds. Or wherever.”

“Four a year?!”

“Not enough? Six, then. Three new per year. King’s alone is eleven years: by the end of the first eleven years you’ll be putting thirty-three children through school per year.”

Lestrade’s eyes went huge. “Mycroft… that’s…”

Mycroft shook his head, refusing to let his partner go on. “It’s money. Money is easy. I can arrange that without even drawing on my own funds, if I choose. I don’t choose. But I can set up a trust that will keep your generosity going for generations to come. The DI Gregory Lestrade Scholarships. A legacy. You approve?”

“I… um.  That’s…”

“A start. And my second offer. No fostering. Greg, I’m serious: I’m tired. I’d truly rather not be a foster father, when I don’t have to be. But I’ll be happy to set up a similar trust to encourage fostering. There are people who are not so tired—or greater of heart than I. It’s good?”

“Um. Yeah…”

“And my last offer: the final piece of the puzzle. Love, this one comes with a price tag. One infant adoption. I don’t in the least mind an adoption, provided you’re willing to consider the same kinds of issues we consider before committing to an IVF child. What handicaps we’re willing and able to cope with. What problems we’re willing to gamble on. But I’m willing to start fresh with an adoption with no objections, and would welcome an adopted child to our family gladly.”

Lestrade studied him carefully, eyes sharp and challenging. “And the price tag?”

Mycroft licked his lips, nervously, knowing his one stipulation might be the deal-breaker. “One. I want one IVF child of yours. Please, I don’t want to force you to have a child of your own if you’ve developed cold feet. I do understand. But… One? Just one? Please?”

Lestrade frowned at him in complete bewilderment. “What?”

“I want you to agree to one IVF child. Son. Daughter. Your choice. All your choice. But one of yours.”

“This is supposed to be the big price I’m going to pay to be able to adopt a kid, put dozens more through school and support fostering around Great Britain? This is the _price?_ My, does Her Majesty really let you out unattended to cut deals for the British nation? Because if she does, I’m a frightened man tonight. God knows what you’re giving away to our rivals…”

Mycroft shrugged. “Yes. That’s the price.”

Lestrade shook his head, puzzled. “Mycroft, what’s in it for you? I mean…why?”

“Diplomats don’t have to give their motives, love.” Mycroft finished his own brandy, set the snifter on the sill, and returned to his desk, attempting a convincing return to work as he picked up his tablet. “It’s how it works.”

Lestrade grumbled, softly, then came around the desk and sat on the top, one thigh brushing Mycroft’s forearm. “That’s _not_ how partnerships work, though. Come on. Give. What’s in it for you?”

Mycroft sighed, and stared uneasily at the tablet, feeling weak and vulnerable. “It’s not obvious?”

“Not to me, it’s not?”

Mycroft looked up into his love’s face. “I get to adopt a child who needs a family. I get to put dozens of children through school. I get to promote fostering around the nation. And…” he sighed softly, and stood. Gently, gently, he ran a finger across Lestrade’s cheekbones—wide, solid, entirely unlike the high-arched line of Sherlock’s or the peaked, foxy line of his own, but insanely beautiful in his eyes. He traced the line of Lestrade’s nose, trailed his fingers down his jaw. His hand rose again to brush over eyelids that fluttered shut at his advance. “Love… I know you’ll stamp your mind and heart and soul on every child you help to raise. And that’s an immortality of a sort. But allow me this one indulgence: to give those eyes, that mouth, that sweetness of nature, that bone-deep decency…all those things hidden in the twists and turns of your genes…give me the hope of doing my bit to pass down those bits of Gregory Lestrade one more generation. The hope that some scrap of what I love will echo down the ages. One child. I won’t ask for more. But let me do that one bit to see your line continue?”

Lestrade looked at him in utter shock, eyes blown wide in surprise. “Shiiiiiii…… Mycroft?”

Mycroft blushed and turned away, forcing his eyes back to his work. He stood staring at the desk top, refusing to meet Lestrade’s eyes. “Well, you did ask.”

“My….”

They were silent, together, Mycroft feeling more and more terrified he’d made a mistake that could not be undone. Then Lestrade’s hand sleeked softly over his shoulders. “You crazy poetic idiot.”

He looked up, startled. “What?”

“You mad, sentimental romantic. We’re going to have to hide this from Sherlock forever, or he’ll never give you peace.”

Mycroft shivered. His partner’s eyes were damp and bright, and his smile quite crooked… and data-data-data-data: Mycroft Holmes had apparently said something quite right.

Apparently quite right indeed.

He might have spent an hour or two analyzing the matter, but he found himself quite occupied by a kiss… and after that he wasn’t thinking about much at all beyond how very glad he was that Gregory Lestrade was his partner, not anyone else’s.

 


	8. Oh, For Goodness' Sake: Sophia's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knew they had all these stories? I didn't. And they keep blatting at me!

Sherlock had gotten into the high-security landing bay by stealing three different IDs, wearing one disguise (janitorial), and bribing a minor security guard. For fun, of course. A single text to Anthea would have gotten him onsite to greet his brother’s return from Vienna with no questions asked and no obstacles placed in his way. But that would have been dull. Sherlock was still morally opposed to ordinary, lackluster dullness. It was much more fun to lurk in the shadows only to pop out like a jack-in-the-box as Mycroft paced wearily down the aisle, shooting orders to Anthea and his other subordinates while far too clearly longing to fly like a homing pigeon to the flat on Hyde Park and his growing family.

After which it was also far more fun to race frantically around the echoing hangar dodging bullets and flying tackles from horrified bodyguards while Mycroft shouted angrily to try to call his people off. Sherlock took entertainment where he found it, and escalated it where possible. In this instance he got a full half-hour before the excitement died down and he stood unrepentant before his older brother, dusting off his Belstaff and smirking his satisfaction.

“They need more training, brother-mine. They never did catch me—just think if I’d been an assassin! And, worse, they never did ID me. If you hadn’t been there they would still be assuming I was a madman from one of a few hundred possible terrorist cells. I’m quite appalled your security is this lax. I don’t want to have to be the one to inform DI Lestrade he’s a widower, much less find myself advanced to second-on-the-emergency-call-list for your wicked brats.”

“Fourth on the call-list even if I die, Sherlock,” Mycroft said repressively. “After Greg and John and Anthea. We all know you can’t be trusted not to treat emergencies as sources of experimental data.  Oh, and that’s ‘Chief Inspector Lestrade.’ Do, please, remember Greg’s promotion? Now what brings you to my humble jet hangar?”

“Her Royal Highness’ humble jet hangar?”

“It’s assigned to me for life, Sherlock. I think I can get away with using the possessive in this instance. And you haven’t answered my question. Why are you here, little brother?”

Sherlock looked at him in gleeful amusement. There were so few times he got to pull Mycroft’s chain this hard—a good, solid yank that would be remembered for decades to come no matter what the outcome, and that might put Mycroft in life-debt to his younger brother if Sherlock had reckoned the facts properly. “I have someone for you to meet, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed in profound exasperation. “Sherlock, can’t it wait? I’ve spent _days_ trapped between Angela Merkel’s people and the Greek Treasury…I’m considering putting in for hazard pay, for God’s sake. I’m tired, I yearn for a shower and a proper cup of English tea, and I want to see my partner and my children. Tomorrow, yes?”

“No. Tonight.”

Mycroft studied Sherlock’s face, carefully, frowning. “You’re up to something.”

Sherlock snorted. “Oh, well spotted! We’ll have you deducing for England in the next Olympics. Yes, brother-mine, I’m ‘up to something.’ And I think you’ll find it in your own best interests to attend me tonight.”

“Can you at least give me a clue why, Sherlock?” Mycroft said, forlornly. “Please?”

“A group of homeless children working as pickpockets were collected by the Met this evening, and they’re being transferred to Social Services even as I speak. If I hadn’t made a request they delay, you’d be too late to meet my…associate.”

“And this is of interest to me why?”

Sherlock smirked. “I think you’re going to find you have a parental interest, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Impossible, Sherlock. I’m afraid I’ve kept very good track of my genetic potential this past twenty years and more… and Gregory’s is even better guarded, by nature as well as ethics. Parental interest is entirely ruled out.”

“I think you may find that for certain narrow definitions you’re wrong, Mycroft. Do you want to take a chance I’m right?”

Which, as he suspected, was enough to light the third stage booster under his brother’s usually stolid form quite instantly.

oOo

The officers had at least placed her in a comfortable lounge, with a sofa and a chair and a table, Mycroft thought in dismay.

His observational skills were on screaming overdrive, already primed by Sherlock’s smug hints, and set at maximum the second he saw that tense, determined body and met those huge, dark eyes. She’d lifted her chin, thrown back her shoulders, and said in the voice of a queen, “They’ve taken my children. I want them back. Now.”

Which would have been impressive in anyone currently trapped in the bowels of a Met station, but was somehow all the more compelling in a child Mycroft suspected of being no more than eight. He tagged the starveling figure, more bone and skin than muscle, the bent nose that suggested a blow to the face at some point, the carefully maintained hygiene in spite of the worn and shabby clothing, the two long plaits woven tight as steel cable running down her thin chest. Mixed ancestry, he thought: Pakistani, yes, but perhaps Northern African, too? Intelligent—oh, God, yes. Mycroft knew that assessing look, those sharp eyes. He’d seen them staring out of Sherlock’s face for over forty years, now. Out of his own mirror for almost fifty. Before he could say a thing to her, she said, calmly,

“Toff, but that’s too easy: suit alone tells me that. You know your brother, and suspect me, so you keep your pockets well protected. Habitual, too. I’d gather no wallet from you tonight, even if I were free.” She considered a beat further, then continued. “Government man. Recently overseas—you smell of the Viennese blend of coffee they serve at the Blue Danube, and you’re tired with travel. Very high ranking. Very high—used to doing what you choose and going where you like, and no one stops you. It shows. And the lot here at the Met aren’t about to argue with you or your baby brother.”

Mycroft smirked, and cocked his head. “Lay that deduction out for me, my dear.”

She snorted. “Obvious. You’re the boss brother: even that long streak of attitude defers to you…and tags along in your wake like little brothers everywhere. But you—you don’t even have to move for me to see the wings spread over your baby brother. Or the claws you’d use to kill anyone who hurt him. No matter what, though, you’re brothers. I could point at the height, or the long, thin necks, or create explanations for why one’s dark and the other’s ginger—though not for long at the rate you’re losing your hair. But it doesn’t need laying out. It’s there in every move you make together.” She rolled her eyes, and repeated, scornfully, “Obvious.”

“Well done,” Mycroft said, approvingly. “I am impressed. You’re, what? Eight or nine: hard to factor in genetics and nutritional issues under the circumstances. Pakistani mother: your accent’s Urdu. Father…Perhaps unknown to you? Yes. I thought perhaps, though I suspect he’s Moroccan. You’ve a look I can’t easily place elsewhere. Limited formal education, but that hasn’t stopped you, has it, my dear? When did you first teach yourself to read…” His eyes drifted out of focus for a moment as he evaluated her vocabulary, her lines of reasoning, her awareness of the world. “As young as two or three, I’d say, and a glutton for words. And not just fluffy fantasy…” He snapped back into alertness, and met her stare with a narrow intensity like a laser drill. “A guess, no more, but your mother worked in a kiosk, didn’t she? You started on newspapers, not Harry Potter.”

The child blinked, showing the first signs of intimidation since Sherlock and Mycroft had entered. “How…did you know?”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “Let’s just say we’ve much in common, you, my brother, and I. How long have you been living on the street, my dear?”

She shrugged. “None of your business, mate.”

“Perhaps not. But it could become so. Will become so. It’s up to you whether that’s a good thing or not. Now, tell me…or do you wish me to guess again?”

She studied him. “Guess.”

He nodded, and studied her further. “Stayed with your mother long enough to learn basic self-care. Comb and braid and tie. Dress competently and maintain what you wear. Mending skills—far more than the average street rat. Even considering your obvious intelligence, those skills demand physical as well as mental development. I’d suspect your new stepfather beat you for the first time when you were…hmmm.” He thought, carefully. “Six? And you left by seven.”

Her shocky blink was answer enough. He nodded to himself. “Picked up by a fagin within days, no doubt. Clever eyes, clever hands, learned to nick a wallet out of a back pocket before a week was out. How long before you scarpered and set up your own ring, love? No…I’ll guess again.” He thought, and without realizing his voice went soft as he continued. “They were all so young, in comparison to you, no matter what their real age. Weren’t they? So helpless. So lost. So you picked up one, and then another, and once you realized what you were doing you put it all together. You looked for the ones who were too weak to make it on their own, but smart enough to be taught.” He turned to Sherlock, then. “How many in her gang?”

“Ten others.”

“Ages?”

“The youngest was five.”

He looked back at her in gentle sympathy, and her nerve faltered. “They took my children,” she said, again—this time with the lost misery of an orphaned child at a disaster site. “They took the babies.”

He nodded. “Yes. But they’ll take good care of them, my dear. I promise, I’ll see they’re all properly cared for. Good food, good beds, good education, and with luck, good families. No effort will be spared making sure they’re cared for. Can you give them as much?”

She looked at the worn toes of her trainers, and shook her head, braids swaying back and forth like pendulums.

“It’s all right, my dear,” he said, softly. “I think… No. I won’t say anything. But there are some people I want you to meet. Sherlock, keep this young lady company. I have arrangements to make before we all leave this miserable excuse for a dungeon.” He ignored Sherlock’s whispered, “Told you so, brother-mine” as he whisked past to arrange for the British Government to accept oversight of one little lost street rat.

oOo

Lestrade was twitching by the time the second call of the evening came through from Mycroft. Gwen was racing up and down the house shouting “Ex-term-i-nate! Ex-term-i-nate!” and making little energy-bolt noises. Young Beth, Greg’s IVF baby, was in need of a new nappy and her evening bottle. The _au pair_ had had a meltdown over her German boyfriend earlier that evening and was watching therapeutic _Downton Abbey_ episodes and ripping through tissues at a rate to break even Mycroft’s bank account, and dinner was turning to dried jerky in the oven on hold, what with Sherlock kidnapping Mycroft for reason or reasons unknown. And on top of it all he had to review the work of the eight DIs under him, and their teams, and try to determine the best way to expend them over the weeks to come, with what looked like a major case coming in with the riverfront killer, and a society gossip murder that was boring but politically touchy.

In other words, it could have been worse—but it could just as easily have been a whole lot better, and Greg honestly wished it were better.

And then the second call came in. He pinned a wriggling Beth to the changing table with one square hand, flipped the phone open with the other, and grunted his unwilling presence.

“Greg?”

Mmm-hmmm, Lestrade thought, calmly. Mycroft’s got his ass in some kind of trouble, or he’s got a favor to ask—or he’s really missed me a whole lot more than a few days in Vienna would seem to suggest.

“What, love?”

There was a long, edgy silence, and then a soft follow up. “I…want to renegotiate an understanding.”

Which did not sound good. “You’re not planning on kicking me out, are you?”

Mycroft sputtered. “Good God, no! What a repulsive idea! And even if I wished to, Gwen, Beth, Lisette, Anthea, Sherlock, John, Mary, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson would disown me if I attempted it. And Her Highness would have me on the carpet for a ‘little lecture.’ She does not approve of reckless abandonment of one’s family.”

“Then what gives?... Look, hang on. Let me put this to speaker phone, Beth’s soaked another nappy and I’m doing the one-handed baby-juggle. Half a mo’… there.” Greg set the mobile on the changing table and slipped off the drenched nappy, grabbing a wipe. “What understanding do you want to negotiate? Different side of the bed? New duty rota? Want me to let you off the hook reading Gwen _The Hobbit_? I can probably get John and Sherlock to do that. Sherlock would love doing dragon-voice….”

“He’d insist on doing motion capture, too, and it would cost a fortune,” Mycroft grumbled. “Most expensive bedtime reading in the history of children’s literature. But…no. I…” Lestrade could hear him swallow. “I know I said I didn’t want a foster child, or an older adopt. But… Greg, love? I need you to meet someone. I really need you to meet someone.”

And Greg could hear clearly that the word “need” was in no way hyperbolic. He took a deep breath. “Not a problem, love. You were the one with doubts. And it’s not like we’ve found that infant adoption you wanted. When do you want to introduce us?”

“Tonight.”

Which, Greg thought, even as he agreed, was frightening in its impetuosity. Mycroft Holmes did not drag home foster children with no warning. He just did not.

 

oOo

Sherlock found the drive from the Met station to the Hyde Park flat fascinating. The young girl was clearly awed at the lush black car, the sleek leather upholstery, the privacy panel cutting the passengers off from the driver—the driver himself. She sat primly on the backward-facing seat, strapped in tightly, trying to look cool and collected, and failing entirely. Her bright, dark eyes darted here and there, picking up detail after detail. Sherlock suspected that if she’d been able to join him and Mycroft in their youth, playing the “train game” and sorting details of strangers, she would have beaten Sherlock, just as Mycroft always had. He wasn’t sure she wouldn’t have beaten Mycroft. He wasn’t sure she was smarter than his brother, but his brother’s skills were enforced only by his own genius and self-discipline. The girl’s were reinforced by years on the street, protecting her little family of Artful Dodgers and Oliver Twists.

“You don’t even know my name,” she said, trying for a subject she could control.

“No. I don’t,” Sherlock’s brother said, all equisite politeness and patience. “I thought you’d tell me, if you chose. And it’s not my business if you don’t, is it?”

She looked at him, eyes worried.

“He’s not trying to find a way to ditch you, brat,” Sherlock drawled. “Believe it or not, it’s my brother’s idea of respect. He’s treating you more or less the way he treats foreign dignitaries. If you want to know why World Peace in Our Time is not an option, you have but to consider the implications of Mycroft’s notion of diplomacy.”

She met Sherlock’s gaze and sniggered, and they shared a fast, fleeting smile. She said, softly, “I knew about you, you know. Used to wonder if my littles could be part of your network.”

“Could. Not likely, though,” Sherlock said. “Usually look just a little older. You little ones have too much to do just trying to survive.”

She frowned. “But we hear _everything_. No one thinks before they talk around us. Not anyone. Even the other rats.”

He shrugged. “I shall consider it further, then. Perhaps we can consult at a later time?”

She nodded, but then stared out the car window at the traffic spinning by, jaw set, trying to blink back tears. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“Your life isn’t over,” Mycroft said, soberly. “I promise.”

She shot him a wary glance. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to like it, though.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

She looked back out the window. “My grandfather called me ‘the bastard.’ My mother called me Abeer.”

“Perfume,” Mycroft said. “A pretty name.”

“Stupid name. Who wants to be perfume?”

“Better than stink.”

She snorted, but refused to giggle. Instead, in a tight, street-tough, angry voice she said, “You’re a faggot, aren’t you?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I’d choose a kinder word. But, yes.”

She thought about it, and shrugged herself. “Safer, faggots. For me, anyway. Not going to buy me for the night. And you’re the clean kind. Don’t buy street kids no matter what dingles dangle between our legs, do you?”

“Married. To an older man. Not in the least interested in children—at least not as sex toys,” Mycroft said, firmly, with evident distaste. “I’ve got two daughters already, and am hoping for more children eventually. You can consider me to be against anything that threatens them.”

She looked to Sherlock for confirmation. He rolled his eyes. “He’s so domestic it’s repulsive,” he snarked. “And he’s as good as ruined the best DI New Scotland Yard could list on its rota. Turned the man into a nappy-changing Chief Inspector. I am not amused. And you do not want to see what he turns into when anything threatens anyone in his care. Particularly his partner or his children. ‘Wrath of God’ has nothing on Mycroft in a protective snit.” When she looked dubiously at his brother, he added, “Don’t underestimate him. Turn on your deduction. He’s the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet, on more levels than you can count. But one of those levels is basic hand-to-hand. If he’d been your fagin on the streets, nothing would have touched you and the others. Nothing, no one, ever. And if they tried, they’d pay.”

She snorted…then risked a very cautious second look at Mycroft. She glanced back at Sherlock, suddenly uncertain. “Yeah?”

“Oh, very yeah.”

“Sherlock, you’re going to frighten her,” Mycroft fussed.

“On the contrary, brother, I believe you’ve just gone up several levels in her estimation on protective capacity alone.” He returned his attention to the child. “If you ask him nicely, I suspect he’ll teach you how to fight. And when he’s out of skills, he’ll let his PA teach you. She’s not as dangerous as he is when it’s not hand-to-hand or weapons. He’s still teaching her to kill heads of state with a fountain pen and an ice cold look. But she’s enough better than he is at combat skills that she’s his body guard. If they both teach you it will take real work to kill you.”

“If they’re that good, then no one will be able to kill me,” the child said, tartly, “because I am a very good student.”

“Someone can always kill you,” Mycroft said, firmly. “All people die. All…”

“All hearts break. Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock droned, tone announcing the boooooring dullness of Mycroft’s statement. “Don’t listen to him. He says that all the time, and he wears his heart on his sleeve.”

“Thus my regularly broken heart,” Mycroft said.

“Hear me mourn,” Sherlock said, then rubbed a gloved finger over a gloved thumb. “Smallest violin in the world playing, ‘Weep You No More, Sad Fountains.’”

“Dowland,” Mycroft said, absently. “Dowland for the poem. The Doyle melody? Quite lovely, though I do think air violin is a poor choice of instrument for the piece.”

The girl was culturally quicker than either brother had expected. She giggled, catching the interplay. “You’re silly,” she said, in wonder. “You’re both silly?”

“Mycroft, certainly,” Sherlock said.

“At least I’m sober enough to have a family and run a government, rather than play detective,” Mycroft snapped.

Sherlock winked at her as the car pulled up at the kerb. “See? You tell me: married man with family running the government, or me, racing through London’s streets catching murderers? Who made the silly choices, eh?”

She was still giggling when the elevator pulled up to the third story, and let them out at the door of the flat.

oOo

When he heard the door open and Mycroft come in with Sherlock and the child, Greg hoisted Beth to his waist and hurried out to greet them, Gwen racing ahead, still offering to “Ex-term-in-ate” anything potentially dangerous. He arrived just in time to see the strange girl in street rat’s limp third-hand raggedy clothing stop his oldest daughter cold with a single reproving look… a feat unequalled by Mycroft, Greg, Lisette-the- _au-pair_ , or even Anthea. Gwen had all of Sherlock’s fearless, dauntless velocity, and generally nothing could stop her short of physical containment.

The girl, though, managed it. She had eyes dark as jet, and even after a lifetime as a policeman Greg found he wasn’t immune from the desire to start shoving food toward her in a desperate attempt to put a little meat on that skeleton. As Gwen raced toward her in full Dalek roar, she simply pointed, firmly, and said, “No. This is not polite. You will shame your parents. Stop.”

Gwen, perhaps simply too shocked to do otherwise, did so, blinking up at the older girl.

The strange child nodded in satisfaction. “Very good. You can learn.” She glanced up at Mycroft and Sherlock. “Smart. Like you?”

“Early to tell, yet,” Mycroft said. “She might just be normal smart. Either way, she’s ours, though, and we love her.”

She thought about it, and nodded approvingly, reminding Greg of a sober, serious little pocket-sized Mary Poppins—the dark, firm one from the books, not the fluffy, charming one from the Disney movie. “Well. That’s good,” she said. “What’s her name.”

“Gweeeeeeeen-dolyn,” Sherlock drawled, with a gagging sound. “They call her Gwen. It’s repulsive either way. I call her ‘Brat.’ She likes it much better.”

“No, she doesn’t,” the strange child said, firmly. “You’re going to stop that now. Or… only when you make it clear you’re teasing.” When Sherlock choked, looking about to argue, she growled—a tiny kitten sound, but deadly for all that, and looked down her nose at him. She had to cock her head at a terrible angle to look down her nose at a man several feet taller than she was, but she did it, piercing him with a glare of ice. “Behave.”

And Greg knew. He’d have known even if he hadn’t seen his partner hovering, already bonded, already lost in love for his little foundling chick. How could Mycroft not adore her, Greg wondered, amused and at the same time adoring. She was Mycroft—Mycroft at age eight or nine, perhaps, and fresh off the streets, but Mycroft for all that: brilliant, tough, ferocious, parental, and dedicated to protecting things.

He stepped forward, head cocking to one side. “Oi. You.  Got a name, love?”

She turned to look at him, eyes taking in everything: the slightly limp and definitely mussed white oxford button-down, open at the collar, the dark trousers, the baby tucked into the turn of his elbow. She probably counted every grey hair, did an assessment on all the wrinkles coming into play on his face. Her eyes narrowed as she considered him. “That one’s brother says he doesn’t fuck kids. You don’t, either, do you?”

“Definitely not on my to-do list,” Greg said. “Mainly try to arrest tossers who do.”

“Not making much of a job of it, are you?” she said, tartly. “Plenty still out there.”

“Always will be, love. More coming online every day. But we do what we can.”

She humphed, but nodded. “We’ll see about that after your fellow teaches me fighting and his brother teaches me detecting,” she announced. Then, suddenly shy, she said, “Can we go talk? He’s all flutters and fuss, but the way I see it whatever he wants is going to be your choice, really. And…” Suddenly she licked her lips. “I… don’t… I…”

Greg simply dumped Beth into Mycroft’s arms, told Gwen firmly, “You mind your Father, you hear?” and led the child to the kitchen, where he handed her a soda and biscuit from the tin. He looked at her.  “They just picked you up and swept you off and didn’t tell you anything, didn’t they?”

She nodded, pretending not to sniffle.

“Yeah,” he sighed, rubbing his hand over his cropped hair. “That’s them, innit? Ok. Want the straight talk?”

She nodded again, not meeting his eyes.

“Yeah. Ok. Me, Mycroft, we’re married. Gwen and Beth are our kids. Been thinking of adopting for a couple years, now. Hadn’t found the right kid at the right time yet. Weren’t planning on an older kid—but now you’re here, and I’m betting you need someone. Foster family, at least. And so help me, you’d be great. Fit in here like corgis at Buckingham palace, you know? But I won’t let those two overgrown lumps push you. Your time, your choice, and all that. Interested?”

She shivered. “Safe?”

“Very.”

“He as nice as he seems?”

“If you don’t mind dry, finicky, and sometimes too damned strict. You won’t get much past him, though.”

“I can see that. He quick with his fists?”

“Not on kids, sweetheart.”

“You?”

“Been known to smack a butt. Nothing worse.”

She gave him the look that said she knew enough worse to make a smack on the butt a love tap. Then she sighed. “I’d help with the babies.”

“I know,” he said. “It shows.”

She nodded, and whispered, “I’m a sucker. Took all I had to keep the gang down to a few. Couldn’t take care of them all.”

“Never can, sweetheart.”

“You’d let me stay?”

He shrugged. “Not going to tell you that you might not make it too hard. But… yeah. I’d love you to stay.”

“And he can sort it all out?”

“What he can’t, I can. What he and I can’t, Sherlock can get forged for a reasonable fee.”

She giggled. “What would I call you?”

“Probably Da. Mycroft’s usually ‘Father.’ And you?”

She scowled. “Don’t want to be called ‘the bastard.’ Don’t want to be Abeer, either. ‘Perfume’ is a stupid name.”

“So what would you like to be called?”

She jutted her chin at him. “Smart.”

He laughed, caught off guard by her entirely too Holmesian declaration. “Mind being smart and wise both?”

She considered. “Smart and wise is good.”

“Sophia, then.”

She considered further, then nodded. “Yeah. Ok. I can get behind Sophia. But not Sofe. Ok?”

“Sophia it is, then. You can keep your own last name, or take one from the menu: I’m Greg Lestrade, he’s Mycroft Holmes, and occasionally we’re either Lestrade-Holmes or Holmes-Lestrade—but usually if we’re feeling pissy and want to bugger everyone up with the double-shotgun hypens.”

He could almost see her poking cautiously at the options. After a moment she looked shyly at him. “Double-shotgun is nice, though. Means you both want me.”

“Yeah, it does.”

She shivered. “Really going to let me try this?”

He nodded. “May be crazy. Certainly moving way faster than most people would think was smart. But it looks like the two smartest men I know think you’re family already—and the thing is, I agree with ‘em. So, yeah. We’re really going to let you try this, Sofe.”

She glowered at him, and he grinned…and wasn’t at all surprised when she hurtled into his arms.

A few minutes later, after he’d wiped her eyes with a paper towel and brushed the crumbs off her hoodie, he allowed her to lead him into the room with great dignity and announce to Mycroft and Sherlock and her two sisters, “He’s my Da. And _he’s_ my Father. And it’s going to work. Because I said so.”

And Sherlock laughed, and said to his brother, “I told you so. Paternal interest, yes?”

And Mycroft grudgingly agreed that his little brother had been right all along.

 


End file.
